LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SANTA  CRUZ 


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HAGAR. 

THE  LONG  ROLL     The  first  of  two  books  dealing 

with  the  war  between  the  States.  With  Illustrations 

in  color  by  N   C.  WYHTH. 
CEASE  FIRING.     The  second  of  two  books  dealing 

with  the  war  between  the  States.  With  Illustrations 

in  color  by  N.  C.  WYETH. 
LEWIS  RAND.     With  Illustrations  in  color  by  F.  C. 

YOHN. 

AUDREY.    With  Illustrations  in  color  by  F.  C.  YOHN. 

PRISONERS  OF  HOPE.     With  Frontispiece. 

TO  HAVE  AND  TO  HOLD.     With  8  Illustrations  by 

HOWARD  PYLE,  E.  B.  THOMPSON,  A.  W.  BETTS,  and 

EMLHN  MCCONNHLL. 

THE  GODDESS  OF  REASON.     A  Drama. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


"GOOD-BYE,  MISTRESS  FRIENDLY-SOUL! 


THE  WITCH 

BY 

MARY  JOHNSTON 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

press  Cambrib0c 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,   1914,  BY  MARY  JOHNSTON 
ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED 

Published  October  1914 


PS 

JL 
WS 

x 

CONTENTS 

I.  THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER  .                                   i 

II.  THE  CAP  AND  BELLS         .  ...             10 

III.  THE  Two  PHYSICIANS  .  .            .24 

IV.  THE  ROSE  TAVERN            .  .  .             37 
V.  THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN  .            .            •       54 

VI.  THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK         .  .  69 

VII.  JOAN     /  .  .  .  .  .82 

VIII.  THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER    ...  97 

IX.  THE  OAK  GRANGE       .  .  .  .109 

X.  IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST      .  .  .  124 

XL  THE  PLAGUE    .....     136 

XII.  HERON'S  COTTAGE  .  .  .  151 

XIII.  HAWTHORN  CHURCH    ....     165 

XIV.  NIGHT         .  .  .  .  .176 
XV.  NEXT  DAY        .             .             .             .  .188 

XVI.  MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT            .             .  204 

XVII.  MOTHER  SPURAWAY     .            .            .  .218 

XVIII.  THE  GAOL  .....  235 

XIX.  ADERHOLD  AND  CARTHEW       .             .  .     246 

XX.  THE  WITCH  JUDGE             .            .            .  260 


CONTENTS 

XXI.   THE  WITCH 272 

XXII.   ESCAPE     .            .            .  .            .281 

XXIII.  THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT  .            .            .298 

XXIV.  THE  FARTHER  ROAD       .  .            .           312 
XXV.   THE  SILVER  QUEEN.  .            .             .327 

XXVI.  THE  OPEN  BOAT             .  .            .          342 

XXVII.   THE  ISLAND               .  .            .            .    351 

XXVIII.   FOUR  YEARS        . .  .j;        .  ;  .          v^       362 

XXIX.   THE  SPANIARDS         .  .         .  *            ..    376 

XXX.   THE  ISLET            .            .  .            .           387 

XXXI.   THE  HOUR-GLASS      ...»    404 

XXXII.  A  JOURNEY          .            .  .         .,,»          420 


THE  WITCH 


THE   WITCH 


CHAPTER   I 
THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER 

IT  was  said  that  the  Queen  was  dying.  She  lay 
at  Richmond,  in  the  palace  looking  out  upon  the 
wintry,  wooded,  March-shaken  park,  but  London,  a 
few  miles  away,  had  daily  news  of  how  she  did. 
There  was  much  talk  about  her  —  the  old  Queen  — 
much  telling  of  stories  and  harking  back.  She  had 
had  a  long  reign  —  "Not  far  from  fifty  years,  my 
masters!"  —  and  in  it  many  important  things  had 
happened.  The  crowd  in  the  streets,  the  barge  and 
wherry  folk  upon  the  wind-ruffled  river,  the  rois- 
terers in  the  taverns  drinking  ale  or  sack,  merchants 
and  citizens  in  general  talking  of  the  times  in  the 
intervals  of  business,  old  soldiers  and  seamen  ashore, 
all  manner  of  folk,  indeed,  agreed  upon  the  one  most 
important  thing.  The  most  important  thing  had 
been  the  scattering  of  the  Armada  fifteen  years 
before.  That  disposed  of,  opinions  differed  as  to  the 
next  most  important.  The  old  soldiers  were  for 
all  fighting  wherever  it  had  occurred.  The  seamen 
and  returned  adventurers  threw  for  the  voyages  of 
Drake  and  Frobisher  and  Gilbert  and  Raleigh.  With 
these  were  inclined  to  agree  the  great  merchants 

i 


THE  WITCH 

and  guild-masters  who  were  venturing  in  the  East 
India  and  other  joint-stock  companies.  The  little 
merchant  and  guild  fellows  agreed  with  the  great. 
A  very  large  number  of  all  classes  claimed  for  the 
overthrow  of  Popery  the  first  place.  On  the  other 
hand,  a  considerable  number  either  a  little  hurriedly 
slurred  this,  or  else  somewhat  too  anxiously  and 
earnestly  supported  the  assertion.  One  circle,  all 
churchmen,  lauded  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  and  the 
pains  and  penalties  provided  alike  for  Popish  recu- 
sant and  non-conforming  Protestant.  Another  cir- 
cle, men  of  a  serious  cast  of  countenance  and  of  a 
growing  simplicity  in  dress,  left  the  Act  of  Uniform- 
ity in  obscurity,  and  after  the  deliverance  from  the 
Pope,  made  the  important  happening  the  support 
given  the  Protestant  principle  in  France  and  the 
Netherlands.  A  few  extreme  loyalists  put  in  a  claim 
for  the  number  of  conspiracies  unearthed  and  tram- 
pled into  nothingness  —  Scottish  conspiracies,  Irish 
conspiracies,  Spanish  conspiracies,  Westmoreland 
and  Northumberland  conspiracies,  Throgmorton 
conspiracies  —  the  death  of  the  Queen  of  Scots,  the 
death,  two  years  ago,  of  Essex. 

All  agreed  that  the  Queen  had  had  a  stirring  reign 

—  all  but  the  latter  end  of  it.  The  last  few  years 

—  despite  Irish  affairs  —  had  been  dull  and  settled, 
a  kind  of  ditch-water  stagnation,  a  kind  of  going 
downhill.    Fifty  years,  almost,  was  a  long  time  for 
one  person  to  reign.  .  .  . 

On  a  time  the  Queen  had  been  an  idol  and  a  cyno- 

2 


THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER 

sure  —  for  years  the  love  of  a  people  had  been  warm 
about  her.  It  had  been  a  people  struggling  to  be- 
come a  nation,  beset  with  foreign  foes  and  inner  dis- 
sensions, battling  for  a  part  in  new  worlds  and 
realms.  She  had  led  the  people  well,  ruled  well,  come 
out  with  them  into  the  Promised  Land.  And  now 
there  was  a  very  human  dissatisfaction  with  the  Pro- 
mised Land,  for  the  streams  did  not  run  milk  and 
honey  nor  were  the  sands  golden.  As  humanly,  the 
dissatisfaction  involved  the  old  Queen.  She  could 
not  have  been,  after  all,  the  Queen  that  they  had 
thought  her.  .  .  .  After  crying  for  so  many  years 
"Long  live  Queen  Elizabeth!"  there  would  come 
creeping  into  mind  a  desire  for  novelty.  King  James, 
—  King  James!  The  words  sounded  well,  and  pro- 
mised, perhaps,  the  true  Golden  Age.  But  they  were 
said,  of  course,  under  breath.  The  Queen  was  not 
dead  yet. 

They  told  strange  stories  of  her  —  the  old  Queen ; 
usually  in  small,  select  companies  where  there  were 
none  but  safe  men.  As  March  roared  on,  there  was 
more  and  more  of  this  story-telling,  straws  that 
showed  the  way  the  tide  was  setting.  They  were 
rarely  now  stories  of  her  youth,  of  her  courage  and 
fire,  of  her  learning,  of  the  danger  in  which  she  lived 
when  she  was  only  "  Madam  Elizabeth,"  of  her  im- 
prisonment in  the  Tower  —  nor  were  they  stories  of 
her  coronation,  and  of  the  way,  through  so  many 
long  years,  she  had  queened  it,  of  her  "mere  English- 
ness,"  her  steady  courage,  her  power  of  work,  her 

3 


THE  WITCH 

councillors,  her  wars,  and  her  statecraft.  Leaving 
that  plane,  they  were  not  so  often  either  stories  of 
tragic  errors,  of  wrath  and  jealousy,  finesse  and  de- 
ception, of  arbitrary  power,  of  the  fret  and  weakness 
of  the  strong.  —  But  to-day  they  told  stories  of  her 
amours,  real  or  pretended.  They  repeated  what  she 
had  said  to  Leicester  and  Leicester  had  said  to  her, 
what  she  had  said  to  Alengon  and  Alengon  had 
answered.  They  dug  up  again  with  a  greasy  mind 
her  girlhood  relations  with  Seymour,  they  created 
lovers  for  her  and  puffed  every  coquetry  into  a  full- 
blown liaison;  here  they  made  her  this  man's  mistress 
and  that  man's  mistress,  and  there  they  said  that  she 
could  be  no  man's  mistress.  They  had  stories  to  tell 
of  her  even  now,  old  and  sick  as  she  was.  They  told 
how,  this  winter,  for  all  she  was  so  ill  at  ease,  she 
would  be  dressed  each  day  in  stiff  and  gorgeous 
raiment,  would  lie  upon  her  pillows  so,  with  rings 
upon  her  fingers  and  her  face  painted,  and  when 
a  young  man  entered  the  room,  how  she  gathered 
strength.  . .  . 

The  March  wind  roared  down  the  streets  and 
shook  the  tavern  signs. 

In  the  palace  at  Richmond,  there  was  a  great 
room,  and  in  the  room  there  was  a  great  bed.  The 
room  had  rich  hangings,  repeated  about  the  bed. 
The  windows  looked  upon  the  wintry  park,  and 
under  a  huge,  marble  mantelpiece,  carved  with  tri- 
tons  and  wreaths  of  flowers,  a  fire  burned.  About 
the  room  were  standing  women  —  maids  of  honour, 

4 


THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER 

tiring- women.  Near  the  fire  stood  a  group  of  men, 
silent,  in  attendance. 

The  Queen  did  not  lie  upon  the  bed  —  now  she 
said  that  she  could  not  endure  it,  and  now  she  said 
that  it  was  her  will  to  lie  upon  the  floor.  They 
placed  rich  cushions  and  she  lay  among  them  at  their 
feet,  her  gaunt  frame  stretched  upon  cloth  of  gold 
and  coloured  silk.  She  had  upon  her  a  long,  rich 
gown,  as  full  and  rigid  a  thing  as  it  was  possible  to 
wear  and  yet  recline.  Her  head  was  dressed  with  a 
tire  of  false  hair,  a  mass  of  red-gold ;  there  was  false 
colour  upon  her  cheek  and  lip.  She  kept  a  cup  of 
gold  beside  her  filled  with  wine  and  water  which  at 
long  intervals  she  put  to  her  lips.  Now  she  lay  for 
hours  very  still,  with  contracted  brows,  and  now  she 
turned  from  side  to  side,  seeking  ease  and  finding 
none.  Now  there  came  a  moan,  and  now  a  Tudor 
oath.  For  the  most  part  she  lay  still,  only  the  fingers 
of  one  hand  moving  upon  the  rim  of  the  cup  or  meas- 
uring the  cloth  of  gold  beneath  her.  Her  sight  was 
failing.  She  had  not  eaten,  would  not  eat.  She  lay 
still,  supported  upon  fringed  cushions,  and  the  fire 
burned  with  a  low  sound,  and  the  March  wind  shook 
the  windows. 

From  the  group  of  men  by  the  fire  stepped  softly, 
not  her  customary  physician,  but  another  of  some 
note,  called  into  association  during  these  last  days. 
He  crossed  the  floor  with  a  velvet  step  and  stood 
beside  the  Queen.  His  body  bent  itself  into  a  curve 
of  deference,  but  his  eyes  searched  without  rever- 

5 


THE  WITCH 

ence.  She  could  not  see  him,  he  knew,  with  any 
clearness.  He  was  followed  from  the  group  by  a 
grave  and  able  councillor.  The  two  stood  without 
speaking,  looking  down.  The  Queen  lay  with  closed 
eyes.  Her  fingers  continued  to  stroke  the  cloth  of 
gold;  from  her  thin,  drawn  lips,  coloured  cherry- red, 
came  a  halting  murmur:  " England  —  Scotland  — 
Ireland—  " 

4  The  two  men  glanced  at  each  other,  then  the 
Queen's  councillor,  stepping  back  to  the  fire,  spoke 
to  a  young  man  standing  a  little  apart  from  the  main 
group.  This  man,  too,  crossed  the  floor  with  a  noise- 
less step  and  stood  beside  the  physician.  His  eyes 
likewise  searched  with  a  grave,  professional  interest. 

"Navarre,"  went  the  low  murmur  at  their  feet. 
"Navarre  and  Orange.  .  .  .  No  Pope,  but  I  will  have 
ritual  still.  .  .  .  England  —  Scotland  — " 

The  Queen  moaned  and  moved  her  body  upon  the 
cushions.  She  opened  her  eyes.  "Who's  standing 
there?  God's  death  — !" 

The  physician  knelt.  "Madam,  it  is  your  poor 
physician.  Will  not  Your  Grace  take  the  draught 
now?" 

" No.  —  There's  some  one  else  — " 

"Your  Grace,  it  is  a  young  physician  —  English 
—  but  who  has  studied  at  Paris  under  the  best 
scholar  of  Ambroise  Par£.  He  is  learned  and  skilful. 

He  came  commended  by  the   Duke  of to  Sir 

Robert  Cecil—" 

"God's  wounds!"  cried  the  Queen  in  a  thin,  im- 

6 


THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER 

perious  voice.  "  Have  I  not  told  you  and  Cecil,  too, 
that  there  was  no  medicine  and  no  doctor  who  could 
do  me  good!  Pare  died,  did  he  not?  and  you  and 
your  fellow  will  die !  All  die.  I  have  seen  a  many  men 
and  matters  die  —  and  I  will  die,  too,  if  it  be  my 
will!" 

She  stared  past  him  at  the  strange  physician.  "  If 
he  were  Hippocrates  himself  I  would  not  have  him ! 
I  do  not  like  his  looks.  He  is  a  dreamer  and  born  to 
be  hanged.  —  Begone,  both  of  you,  and  leave  me  at 
peace." 

Her  eyes  closed.  She  turned  upon  the  cushions. 
Her  fingers  began  again  to  move  upon  the  rich  stuff 
beneath  her.  '  *  England  — ' ' 

The  rejected  aid  or  attempt  to  aid  stepped,  velvet- 
footed,  backward  from  the  pallet.  The  physicians 
knew,  and  all  in  the  room  knew,  that  the  Queen 
could  not  now  really  envisage  a  new  face.  She  might 
with  equal  knowledge  have  said  of  the  man  from 
Paris,  "He  is  a  prince  in  disguise  and  born  to  be 
crowned."  But  though  they  knew  this  to  be  true, 
the  Queen  had  said  the  one  thing  and  had  not  said 
the  other,  and  what  she  said  had  still  great  and 
authoritative  weight  of  suggestion.  The  younger 
physician,  returning  to  his  place  a  little  apart  alike 
from  the  women  attendants  and  from  the  group  of 
courtiers,  became  the  recipient  of  glances  of  prede- 
termined curiosity  and  misliking.  Now,  as  it  hap- 
pened, he  really  did  have  something  the  look  of  a 
dreamer — thin,  pale,  and  thoughtful-faced,  with 

7 


THE  WITCH 

musing,  questioning  eyes.  While  according  to  ac- 
cepted canons  it  was  not  handsome,  while,  indeed, 
it  was  somewhat  strange,  mobile,  and  elf-like,  his 
countenance  was  in  reality  not  at  all  unpleasing.  It 
showed  kindliness  no  less  than  power  to  think.  But 
it  was  a  face  that  was  not  usual.  .  .  .  He  was  fairly 
young,  tall  and  well-formed  though  exceedingly 
spare,  well  dressed  after  the  quiet  and  sober  fashion 
of  his  calling.  Of  their  own  accord,  passing  him 
hastily  in  corridor  or  street,  the  people  in  the  room 
might  not  have  given  him  a  thought.  But  now  they 
saw  that  undoubtedly  he  was  strange,  perhaps  even 
sinister  of  aspect.  Each  wished  to  be  as  perspicacious 
as  the  Queen. 

But  they  did  not  think  much  about  it,  and  as  the 
newcomer,  after  a  reverence  directed  toward  the 
Queen,  presently  withdrew  with  the  older  physician, 
—  who  came  gliding  back  without  him,  —  and  as  he 
was  seen  no  more  in  the  palace,  they  soon  ceased  to 
think  about  him  at  all.  He  had  been  recommended 
by  a  great  French  lord  to  the  favour  of  Sir  Robert 
Cecil.  The  latter,  sending  for  him  within  a  day  or 
two,  told  him  bluntly  that  he  did  not  seem  fitted  for 
the  Court  nor  for  Court  promotion. 

The  March  wind  roared  through  London  and  over 
Merry  England  and  around  Richmond  park  and  hill. 
It  shook  the  palace  windows.  Within,  in  the  great 
room  with  the  great  bed,  the  old  Queen  lay  upon  the 
floor  with  pillows  beneath  her,  with  her  brows  drawn 
together  above  her  hawk  nose.  At  intervals  her  mor- 

8 


THE  QUEEN'S  CHAMBER 

tal  disease  and  lack  of  all  comfort  wrung  a  moan,  or 
she  gave  one  of  her  old,  impatient,  round,  mouth- 
filling  oaths.  For  the  most  part  she  lay  quite  silent, 
uneating,  unsleeping,  her  fleshless  fingers  keeping 
time  against  the  rich  cloth  beneath  her.  Her  women 
did  not  love  her  as  the  women  of  Mary  Stuart  had 
loved  that  Queen.  Year  in  and  year  out,  day  in  and 
day  out,  they  had  feared  this  Queen;  now  she  was 
almost  past  fearing.  They  took  no  care  to  tell  her 
that  the  carmine  upon  her  face  was  not  right,  or  that 
she  had  pushed  the  attire  of  hair  to  one  side,  and 
that  her  own  hair  showed  beneath  and  was  grey. 
They  reasoned,  perhaps  with  truth,  that  she  might 
strike  the  one  who  told.  She  lay  in  her  rich  gar- 
ments upon  the  floor,  and  the  fire  burned  with  a 
low  sound  beneath  the  wreathed  tritons  and  she 
smoothed  the  gold  cloth  with  her  fingers.  "England 
— Scotland  —  Ireland.  .  .  .  Mere  English  —  ...  The 
Pope  down,  but  I'll  have  the  Bishops  still — " 


CHAPTER   II 

THE  CAP  AND   BELLS 

THE  inn  was  small  and  snug,  near  Cheapside  Cross, 
and  resorted  to  by  men  of  an  argumentative  mind. 
The  Mermaid  Tavern,  no  great  distance  away,  had 
its  poets  and  players,  but  the  Cap  and  Bells  was  for 
statesmen  in  their  own  thought  alone,  and  for  dispu- 
tants upon  such  trifles  as  the  condition  of  Europe, 
the  Pope,  and  the  change  in  the  world  wrought  by 
Doctor  Martin  Luther.  It  was  ill-luck,  certainly, 
that  brought  Gilbert  Aderhold  to  such  a  place. 

When  he  lost  hope  of  any  help  from  Cecil,  the  evi- 
dent first  thing  to  do  upon  returning  from  Richmond 
to  London,  was  to  change  to  lodgings  that  were  less 
dear,  —  indeed,  to  lodgings  as  little  dear  as  possible. 
His  purse  was  running  very  low.  He  changed,  with 
promptitude,  to  a  poor  room  in  a  poor  house.  It  was 
cold  at  night  and  dreary,  and  his  eyes,  tired  with 
reading  through  much  of  the  day,  ached  in  the  one 
candlelight.  He  went  out  into  the  dark  and  windy 
street,  saw  the  glow  from  the  windows  and  open 
door  of  the  Cap  and  Bells,  and  trimmed  his  course 
for  the  swinging  sign,  a  draught  of  malmsey  and 
jovial  human  faces. 

In  the  tavern's  common  room  he  found  a  seat 
upon  the  long  bench  that  ran  around  the  wall.  It 

10 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

was  a  desirable  corner  seat  and  it  became  his  only  by 
virtue  of  its  former  occupant,  a  portly  goldsmith, 
being  taken  with  a  sudden  dizziness,  rising  and 
leaving  the  place.  Aderhold,  chancing  to  be  standing 
within  three  feet,  slipped  into  the  corner.  He  was 
near  the  fire  and  it  warmed  him  gratefully.  A 
drawer  passing,  he  ordered  the  malmsey,  and  when 
it  was  brought  he  rested  the  cup  upon  the  table 
before  him.  It  was  a  long  table,  and  toward  the 
farther  end  sat  half  a  dozen  men,  drinking  and  talk- 
ing. What  with  firelight  and  candles  the  room  was 
bright  enough.  It  was  warm,  and  at  the  moment  of 
Aderhold 's  entrance,  peaceable.  He  thought  of  a 
round  of  wild  and  noisy  taverns  that  he  had  tried 
one  after  the  other,  and,  looking  around  him,  experi- 
enced a  glow  of  self-congratulation.  He  wanted 
peace,  he  wanted  quiet ;  he  had  no  love  for  the  sud- 
den brawls,  for  the  candles  knocked  out,  and  lives 
of  peaceable  men  in  danger  that  characterized  the 
most  of  such  resorts.  He  sipped  his  wine,  and  after 
a  few  minutes  of  looking  about  and  finding  that  the 
cluster  at  the  far  end  of  the  table  was  upon  a  dis- 
cussion of  matters  which  did  not  interest  him,  he 
drew  from  his  breast  the  book  he  had  been  reading 
and  fell  to  it  again.  As  he  read  always  with  a  con- 
centrated attention,  he  was  presently  oblivious  of  all 
around. 

An  arm  in  a  puffed  sleeve  of  blue  cloth  slashed 
with  red,  coming  flat  against  the  book  and  smother- 
ing the  page  from  sight,  broke  the  spell  and  brought 

ii 


THE  WITCH 

him  back  to  the  Cap  and  Bells.  He  raised  his  chin 
from  his  hand  and  his  eyes  from  the  book  —  or 
rather  from  the  blue  sleeve.  The  wearer  of  this,  a 
formidable,  large  man,  an  evident  bully,  with  a  cap- 
tious and  rubicund  face,  frowned  upon  him  from 
the  seat  he  had  taken,  at  the  foot  of  the  table,  just 
by  his  corner.  The  number  of  drinkers  and  conver- 
sers  had  greatly  increased.  There  was  not  now  just 
a  handful  at  this  especial  table;  they  were  a  dozen 
or  more.  Moreover,  he  found  that  for  some  reason 
their  attention  was  upon  him ;  they  were  watching 
him;  and  he  had  a  great  and  nervous  dislike  of 
being  watched.  He  became  aware  that  there  was  a 
good  deal  of  noise,  coarse  jests  and  laughter,  and 
some  disputing.  Yet  they  looked,  for  the  most  part, 
substantial  men,  not  the  wild  Trojans  and  slash- 
swords  that  he  sometimes  encountered.  For  all  his 
physical  trepidations  he  was  a  close  and  accurate 
observer;  roused  now,  he  sent  a  couple  of  rapid 
glances  the  length  and  breadth  of  the  table.  They 
reported  disputatious  merchants  and  burgomasters, 
a  wine-flushed  three  or  four  from  the  neighbouring 
congeries  of  lawyers,  a  country  esquire,  some  one 
who  looked  pompous  and  authoritative  like  a  petty 
magistrate,  others  less  patent,  —  and  the  owner  of 
the  arm  still  insolently  stretched  across  his  book. 

The  latter  now  removed  the  arm.  ' '  So  ho !  Master 
Scholar,  your  Condescension  returns  from  the  moon 
—  after  we've  halloaed  ourselves  hoarse!  What 
devil  of  a  book  carried  you  aloft  like  that?" 

12 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

Aderhold  decided  to  be  as  placating  as  possible. 
"It  is,  sir,  the  'Chirurgia  Magna'  of  Theophrastus 
Bombast  von  Hohenheim,  called  Paracelsus.'* 

The  red  and  blue  man  was  determined  to  bully. 
"The  Cap  and  Bells  has  under  consideration  the 
state  of  the  Realm.  The  Cap  and  Bells  has  ad- 
dressed itself  to  you  three  times,  requesting  your 
opinion  upon  grave  matters.  First  you  deign  no 
answer  at  all,  and  finally  you  insult  us  with  trivial- 
ities! 'S  death!  are  you  an  Englishman,  sir?" 

"As  English  as  you,  sir,"  answered  Aderhold; 
"though,  in  truth,  seeing  that  I  have  lived  abroad 
some  years  and  am  but  lately  returned,  my  English 
manners  may  have  somewhat  rusted  and  become 
clownish.  I  crave  pardon  of  the  worshipful  company, 
and  I  shall  not  again  read  in  its  presence." 

A  roisterer  addressed  him  from  halfway  down  the 
table.  "We've  got  a  ruling  —  we  that  frequent  the 
Cap  and  Bells.  You  're  a  stranger  —  and  a  strange- 
looking  stranger,  too,  by  your  leave  —  and  you 
must  wipe  out  the  offense  of  your  outlandishness ! 
A  bowl  of  sack  for  the  company  —  you  '11  pay  for  a 
bowl  of  sack  for  the  company?" 

The  colour  flooded  Aderhold 's  thin  cheek.  He  had 
not  enough  in  his  purse  or  anything  like  enough. 
To-morrow  he  expected  —  or  hoped  rather  than  ex- 
pected—  to  receive  payment  from  the  alderman 
whose  wife,  having  fallen  ill  before  the  very  door 
of  the  house  where  he  lodged,  he  had  attended  and 
brought  out  from  the  presence  of  death.  But  to- 

13 


THE  WITCH 

morrow  was  to-morrow,  and  to-night  was  to-night. 
He  told  the  truth.  "I  am  a  poor  physician,  my 
masters,  who  hath  of  late  been  set  about  with  mis- 
fortune —  " 

The  red  and  blue  bully  smote  the  table  with  his 
fist. 

"What  a  murrain  is  a  man  doing  in  the  Cap  and 
Bells  who  cannot  pay  for  sack?  Poor  physician, 
quotha!  I  've  known  a  many  physicians,  but  none  so 
poor  as  that — " 

One  of  the  lawyers,  a  middle-aged,  wiry  man  in 
black,  raised  his  head.  "He  says  true.  Come, 
brother,  out  with  thy  gold  and  silver!" 

"When  I  shall  have  paid,"  said  Aderhold,  "for  the 
malmsey  I  have  drunk,  I  shall  not  have  fourpence  in 
my  purse." 

"Pay  for  the  sack,"  said  the  lawyer,  "and  leave 
the  malmsey  go." 

"  Nay,"  said  Aderhold,  "  I  owe  for  the  malmsey." 

The  red  and  blue  man  burst  forth  again.  "  Oons! 
Would  you  have  it  that  you  do  not  owe  the  sack? 
Call  for  the  drink  and  a  great  bowl  of  it,  aye!  If  the 
host  is  out  at  the  end,  he  can  take  his  pay  with  a 
cudgel  or  summon  the  watch!  Physician,  quotha? 
Now,  as  my  name's  Anthony  Mull,  he  looks  more  to 
me  like  a  black  seminary  priest!" 

Aderhold  leaned  back  appalled.  He  wished  him- 
self in  the  windy  street  or  the  gloom  of  his  lodgings, 
or  anywhere  but  here.  Was  it  all  to  begin  again,  the 
great  weariness  of  trouble  here  and  trouble  there? 

14 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

To  thread  and  dodge  and  bend  aside,  only  in  the  end 
to  find  himself  at  bay,  bright-eyed  and  fierce  at  last 
like  any  hunted  animal  —  he  who  wanted  only  peace 
and  quiet,  calm  space  to  think  in!  He  groaned  in- 
wardly. "  Ah,  the  most  unlucky  star!"  There  came 
to  his  help,  somewhat  strangely,  and,  though  none 
noticed  it,  upon  the  start  as  it  were  of  the  red  and 
blue  bully's  closing  words,  the  Inns  of  Court  man 
who  had  spoken  before.  He  took  his  arms  from  the 
table  and,  turning,  called  aloud,  " William  Host! 
William  Host!" 

The  host  came  —  a  stout  man  with  a  moon  face. 
"Aye,  sir?  aye,  Master  Carnock?" 

"William  Host, "said  Carnock,  "it  is  known,  even 
in  that  remnant  of  Bceotia,  the  Mermaid  Tavern, 
that  thou  'rt  the  greatest  lover  of  books  of  all  the 
Queen's  subjects  — " 

The  host  assumed  the  look  of  the  foolish-wise. 
"Nay,  nay,  I  would  not  say  the  greatest,  Master 
Carnock!  But  't  is  known  that  I  value  a  book  — " 

"Then,"  said  the  other,  "here  is  a  learned  doctor 
with  a  no  less  learned  book."  Rising,  he  leaned  half- 
way over  the  table  and  lifted  from  before  Aderhold 
the  volume  with  which  he  had  been  engaged.  "Lo! 
A  good-sized  book  and  well  made  and  clothed !  Look 
you,  now!  Is't  worth  thy  greatest  bowl  of  sack,  hot 
and  sugared?  It  is  —  I  see  it  by  thine  eye  of  judi- 
cious appraisement!  I  applaud  thy  judgement!  —  I 
call  it  a  Solomon's  judgement.  —  Furnish  the  doctor 
with  the  sack  and  take  the  book  for  payment!" 

15 


THE  WITCH 

Aderhold  thrust  out  a  long  and  eager  arm.  "  Nay, 
sir!  I  value  the  book  greatly  — " 

"If  you  are  not  a  fool  — "  said  the  lawyer  with 
asperity. 

But  the  physician  had  already  drawn  back  his 
arm.  He  could  be  at  times  what  the  world  might 
call  a  fool,  but  his  intelligence  agreed  that  this  occa- 
sion did  not  warrant  folly.  He  might  somehow  come 
up  with  the  book  again;  if  the  alderman  paid,  he 
might,  indeed,  come  back  to-morrow  to  the  Cap  and 
Bells  and  recover  it  from  the  host.  When  the  first 
starting  and  shrinking  from  danger  was  over,  he  was 
quick  and  subtle  enough  in  moves  of  extrication. 
He  had  learned  that  in  his  case,  or  soon  or  late,  a 
certain  desperate  coolness  might  be  expected  to  ap- 
pear. Sometimes  he  found  it  at  one  corner,  some- 
times at  another ;  sometimes  it  only  came  after  long 
delay,  after  long  agony  and  trembling;  and  some- 
times it  slipped  its  hand  into  his  immediately  after 
the  first  recoil.  Whenever  it  came  it  brought,  to  his 
great  relief,  an  inner  detachment,  much  as  though 
he  were  a  spectator,  very  safe  in  some  gallery  above. 
Up  there,  so  safe  and  cool,  he  could  even  see  the 
humour  in  all  things.  Now  he  addressed  the  com- 
pany. "My  masters,  Cleopatra,  when  she  would 
have  a  costly  drink,  melted  pearls  in  wine !  The  book 
there  may  be  called  a  jewel,  for  I  prized  it  mightily. 
Will  you  swallow  it  dissolved  in  sack?  So  I  shall 
make  amends,  and  all  will  be  wiser  for  having  drunk 
understanding!" 

16 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

The  idea  appealed,  the  sack  was  ordered.  But  the 
red  and  blue  bully  was  bully  still.  Aderhold  would 
have  sat  quiet  in  his  corner,  awaiting  the  steaming 
stuff  and  planning  to  slip  away  as  soon  as  might  be 
after  its  coming.  At  the  other  end  of  the  table  had 
arisen  a  wordy  war  over  some  current  city  matter  or 
other  —  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  the  company 
might  seem  to  be  placated  and  attention  drawn.  He 
was  conscious  that  the  lawyer  still  watched  him 
from  the  corner  of  his  eye,  but  the  rest  of  the  dozen 
indulged  in  their  own  wiseacre  wrangling.  All,  that 
is,  but  the  red  and  blue  bully.  He  still  stared  and 
swelled  with  animosity,  and  presently  broke  forth 
again.  "'Physician'!  It  may  be  so,  but  I  do  not 
believe  it!  As  my  name's  Anthony  Mull,  I  believe 
you  to  be  a  Jesuit  spy  — " 

The  sack  came  at  the  moment  and  with  it  a  diver- 
sion. Cups  were  filled,  all  drank,  and  the  lawyer 
flung  ilpon  the  board  for  discussion  the  growing  use 
of  tobacco,  its  merits  and  demerits.  Then,  with 
suddenness,  the  petty  magistrate  at  the  head  of  the 
table  was  found  to  be  relating  the  pillorying  that 
day,  side  by  side,  of  a  Popish  recusant  and  a  railing 
Banbury  man  or  Puritan.  All  at  table  turned  out  to 
be  strong  Church  of  England  men,  zealous  maintain- 
ers  of  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  jealous  of  even  a  smack 
of  deviation  toward  Pope  or  Calvin.  At  the  close  of 
a  moment  of  suspension,  while  all  drank  again,  the 
red  and  blue  bully,  leaning  forward,  addressed  the 
man  of  justice.  "Good  Master  Pierce,  regard  this 

17 


THE  WITCH 

leech,  so  named,  and  put  the  question  to  him,  will 
he  curse  Popery  and  all  its  works." 

It  seemed,  in  truth,  that  this  was  Aderhold's 
unlucky  night.  That,  or  there  was  something  in 
the  Queen's  declaration,  there  was  something  about 
him  different,  something  that  provoked  in  all  these 
people  antagonism.  And  yet  he  was  a  quiet  man,  of 
a  behaviour  so  careful  that  it  suggested  a  shyness  or 
timidity  beyond  the  ordinary.  He  was  not  ill-look- 
ing or  villainous-looking  —  but  yet,  there  it  was! 
For  all  that  he  was  indubitably  of  English  birth, 
"Foreigner"  was  written  upon  him. 

The  present  unluckiness  was  the  being  again 
involved  in  this  contentious  and  noisy  hour.  He  had 
been  gathering  himself  together,  meaning  to  rise 
with  the  emptying  of  the  bowl,  make  his  bow  to  the 
company,  and  quit  the  Cap  and  Bells.  And  now  it 
seemed  that  he  must  stop  to  assure  them  that  he  was 
not  of  the  old  religion!  Aderhold's  inner  man  might 
have  faintly  smiled.  He  felt  the  lawyer's  gaze  upon 
him  —  a  curious,  even  an  apprehensive,  gaze.  The 
justice  put  the  question  portentously,  all  the  table, 
save  only  the  lawyer,  leaning  forward,  gloating  for 
the  answer,  ready  to  dart  a  claw  forward  at  the  least 
flinching.  But  Aderhold  spoke  soberly,  with  a  quiet 
brow.  "  I  do  not  hold  with  cursing,  Master  Justice. 
It  is  idle  to  curse  past,  present,  or  to  come,  for  in  all 
three  a  man  but  curses  himself.  But  I  am  far 
removed  from  that  faith,  and  that  belief  is  become  a 
strange  and  hostile  one  to  me.  I  am  no  Papist." 

18 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

The  bully  struck  the  table  with  his  fist.  "  As  my 
name's  Anthony  Mull,  that's  not  enough!" 

And  the  justice  echoed  him  with  an  owl-like  look: 
"That 'snot  enough!" 

A  colour  came  into  Aderhold's  cheek.  ''There  is, 
my  masters,  no  faith  that  has  not  in  some  manner 
served  the  world  and  given  voice  to  what  we  were 
and  are,  good  and  bad.  No  faith  without  lives  of 
beauty  and  grace.  No  faith  without  its  garland.  But 
since  I  am  to  clear  myself  of  belonging  to  the  old 
religion  —  then  I  will  say  that  I  abhor  —  as  in  a 
portion  of  myself,  diseased,  which  I  would  have  as 
far  otherwise  as  I  might  —  that  I  abhor  in  that  faith 
all  its  cruelties  past  and  present,  its  Inquisition,  its 
torturers  and  savage  hate,  its  wars  and  blood-letting 
and  insensate  strife,  its  falseness  and  cupidity  and 
great  and  unreasonable  pride,  its  King  Know-No- 
More  and  its  Queen  Enquire- No-Further!  I  abhor 
its  leasing  bulls,  its  anathemas  and  excommunica- 
tions, its  iron  portcullis  dropped  across  the  outward 
and  onward  road,  its  hand  upon  the  throat  of  knowl- 
edge and  its  searing  irons  against  the  eyes  of  vision ! 
I  say  that  it  has  made  a  dogma  of  the  childhood  of 
the  mind  and  that,  or  soon  or  late,  there  will  stand 
within  its  portals  intellectual  death —  " 

The  table  blinked.  "At  least,"  said  the  justice 
sagely,  "you  are  no  Papist!" 

But  the  red  and  blue  man  would  not  be  balked 
of  his  prey.  "That's  round  enough,  but  little 
enough  as  a  true  Churchman  talks!  You  appear  to 

19 


THE  WITCH 

me  not  one  whit  less  one  of  us  than  you  did  before ! 
Master  Pierce,  Master  Pierce !  if  he  be  not  a  masked 
Jesuit,  then  is  he  a  Marprelate  man,  a  Banbury 
man,  a  snuffling,  Puritan,  holy  brother!  Examine 
him,  Master  Pierce!  My  name  is  not  Mull,  if  he  be 
not  somehow  pillory  fruit  — " 

It  seemed  that  they  all  hated  a  Puritan  as  much 
as  a  Papist.  "Declare!  Declare!  Are  you  a  Ban- 
bury  Saint  and  a  Brother?  Are  you  Reformed,  a 
Precisian,  and  a  Presbyter?  Are  you  John  Calvin 
and  John  Knox?" 

But  Aderhold  kept  a  quiet  forehead.  "A  brother 
to  any  in  the  sense  you  mean  —  no.  A  saint  —  not 
I!  A  Calvinist?  —  No,  I  am  no  Calvinist." 

' '  Not  enough !   Not  enough ! ' ' 

Aderhold  looked  at  them,  bright-eyed.  "Then  I 
will  say  that  Calvin  burned  Servetus.  I  will  say  that 
where  they  have  had  power  to  persecute  they  have 
persecuted !  I  will  say  that  — ' ' 

Outside  the  Cap  and  Bells  arose  a  great  uproar. 
Whether  it  were  apprentices  fighting,  or  an  issue  of 
gentry  and  sword-play  with  —  in  either  case  —  the 
watch  arriving,  or  whether  it  were  a  fire,  or  news, 
perhaps,  of  the  old  Queen's  death  —  whatever  it 
was  it  behooved  the  Cap  and  Bells  to  know  the 
worst !  All  the  revellers  and  disputers  rose,  made  for 
the  door,  became  dispersed.  Aderhold  snatched  up 
his  cloak  and  hat,  laid  a  coin  beside  the  empty 
malmsey  cup,  sent  one  regretful  glance  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  volume  lying  beside  the  great  bowl,  and 

20 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

quitted  the  Cap  and  Bells.  In  the  street  was  a  glare 
of  light  and  the  noise  of  running  feet.  The  crowd 
appeared  to  be  rushing  toward  Thames  bank,  some 
tall  building  upon  it  being  afire.  He  let  them  go,  and 
drawing  his  cloak  about  him,  turned  in  the  direction 
of  his  lodging. 

He  had  not  gone  far  when  he  felt  himself  touched 
on  the  shoulder.  "Not  so  fast!  A  word  with  you, 
friend!  —  You've  put  me  out  of  breath  — " 

It  proved  to  be  the  lawyer  who  had  befriended 
him.  They  were  standing  before  some  church. 
Wall  and  porch,  it  rose  above  them,  dark  and  va- 
cant. The  lawyer  looked  about  him,  glanced  along 
the  steps  and  into  the  hollow  of  the  porch.  "Bare 
as  is  this  land  of  grace!  —  Look  you,  friend,  we 
know  that  it  is  allowable  at  times  to  do  that  in  dan- 
ger which  we  disavow  in  safety.  Especially  if  we 
have  great  things  in  trust.  —  I  marked  you  quickly 
enough  for  a  man  with  a  secret  —  and  a  secret  more 
of  the  soul  and  mind  than  of  worldly  goods.  Hark 
you !  I  'm  as  little  as  you  one  of  the  mass-denying 
crew  we  've  left.  What !  a  man  may  go  in  troublous 
times  with  the  current  and  keep  a  still  tongue  — 
nay,  protest  with  his  tongue  that  he  loves  the  cur- 
rent —  else  he  '11  have  a  still  tongue,  indeed,  and 
neither  lands  nor  business,  nor  perhaps  bare  life! 
But  when  we  recognize  a  friend  —  "  He  spoke 
rapidly,  in  a  voice  hardly  above  a  whisper,  a  sen- 
tence or  two  further. 

"You  take  me,"  said  Aderhold,  "to  be  Catholic. 

21 


THE  WITCH 

You  mistake;  I  am  not.  I  spoke  without  mask." 
Then,  as  the  other  drew  back  with  an  angry  breath. 
"  You  were  quick  and  kindly  and  saved  me  from  that 
which  it  would  have  been  disagreeable  to  experience. 
Will  you  let  me  say  but  another  word?" 

"Say  on,"  said  the  other  thickly,  "but  had  I 
known  — " 

The  light  from  Thames  bank  reddening  the  street 
even  here,  they  drew  a  little  farther  into  the  shadow 
of  the  porch.  "  I  have  travelled  much,"  said  Ader- 
hold,  "and  seen  many  men  and  beliefs,  and  most 
often  the  beliefs  were  strange  to  me,  and  I  saw  not 
how  any  could  hold  them.  Yet  were  the  people 
much  what  they  were  themselves,  some  kindly,  some 
unkindly,  some  hateful,  some  filled  with  all  helpful- 
ness. I  have  seen  men  of  rare  qualities,  tender  and 
honourable  women  and  young  children,  believe  what 
to  me  were  monstrous  things.  Everywhere  I  have 
seen  that  men  and  women  may  be  better  than  the 
dogma  that  is  taught  them,  seeing  that  what  they 
think  they  believe  is  wrapped  in  all  the  rest  of  their 
being  which  believes  no  such  thing.  Both  in  the  old 
religion  and  in  the  Reformed  have  I  known  many  a 
heroic  and  love- worthy  soul.  Think  as  well  as  you 
may  of  me,  brother,  and  I  will  think  well  of  thee  — 
and  thank  thee,  besides,  — " 

"Cease  your  heretic  talk!"  said  the  lawyer.  "I 
held  you  to  be  of  holy  Mother  Church — "  With 
suddenness,  in  the  darkness,  he  put  forth  his  foot 
and  swung  his  arm,  at  once  tripping  and  striking  the 

22 


THE  CAP  AND  BELLS 

physician  with  such  violence  that  he  came  to  the 
ground  with  his  forehead  against  the  stone  step  of 
the  church.  When  he  staggered  to  his  feet  the  law- 
yer was  gone.  Around  him  howled  the  March  wind 
and  far  above  the  church  vane  creaked.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  until  the  giddiness  passed,  then  gathered 
his  cloak  about  him  and,  hurrying  on  through  the 
nipping  air,  reached  his  lodging  without  further 
adventure. 

That  night  he  slept  well.  The  next  morning,  as  he 
was  eating  his  breakfast,  that  was  spare  enough,  he 
heard  a  loud  and  formal  crying  in  the  street  below. 
He  went  to  the  window.  A  crier  was  approaching,  at 
his  heels  a  mob  of  boys  and  of  the  idle  generally. 
"  The  Queen  is  Dead! —  The  Queen  is  Dead! —  The 
Queen  is  Dead  !  —  Long  Live  King  James  I ' ' 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  TWO   PHYSICIANS 

HE  went  that  morning  to  visit  the  alderman,  inop- 
portune as  he  knew  the  visit  would  be  esteemed. 
But  many  things  were  inopportune  —  hunger,  for 
instance.  The  alderman  found  the  visit  offensively, 
unpatriotically  inopportune.  "What!  The  King's 
Majesty's  ascension  day  — !"  But  one  thing  saved 
Aderhold,  and  that  was  the  presence  in  the  alder- 
man's parlour  of  some  seven  or  eight  cronies,  men 
and  women.  It  would  not  do  —  it  would  not  do  for 
the  alderman  to  seem  haggling  and  unwilling. 
Aderhold  quitted  the  house  the  richer  by  twelve 
shillings. 

The  narrow  streets  were  crowded ;  everybody  was 
out,  excited  and  important  as  though  he  or  she  had 
died  or  been  crowned.  The  physician  strolled  with 
the  others.  The  morning  was  fine,  he  felt  wealthy 
and  happy.  The  sunshine  that  stroked  the  project- 
ing, timbered  fronts  of  houses  was  the  sunshine  of 
home,  the  soft  and  moist  light  of  England.  He 
loved  England.  He  wandered  for  an  hour  or  two 
here  and  there  in  the  London  of  less  than  two  hun- 
dred thousand  souls.  He  went  down  to  the  riverside, 
and  sat  upon  a  stone  step,  and  gazed  into  the  purple, 
brooding  distance.  ...  At  last  he  turned  back,  and 

24 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

after  a  time  found  himself  in  the  street  of  his  lodging, 
and  before  the  house. 

It  was  a  narrow,  poor,  and  gloomy  place,  owned 
by  people  whom  he  guessed  to  have  fallen  on  evil 
days.  The  plainly  dressed  elderly  woman  from 
whom  he  had  hired  his  room  had  told  him,  indeed, 
as  much.  "Aye?"  said  Aderhold.  "Then,  mother, 
I  '11  feel  the  more  at  home."  He  had  lodged  here  now 
ten  days  and  he  had  seen  only  the  elderly  woman 
and  her  son,  a  boy  far  gone  in  consumption  who 
coughed  and  coughed.  The  woman  was  a  silent, 
rigid  person,  withered  but  erect,  wearing  a  cap  and 
over  her  gown  of  dark  stuff  a  coarse  white  kerchief 
and  apron.  This  morning,  when  she  brought  him  his 
half  loaf  and  tankard  of  ale,  he  had  spoken  with 
casualness  of  the  Cap  and  Bells.  She  looked  at  him 
strangely.  "The  Cap  and  Bells!  .  .  .  Doubtless  you 
heard  good  talk  there."  Then  had  come  the  crying 
about  the  Queen's  death.  When  he  turned  from  the 
window  the  woman  was  gone. 

Now  he  entered  the  house.  As  he  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  stair-rail  the  woman  stood  framed  in  a 
doorway.  "Tarry  a  little,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  to  tell 
you  that  this  house  will  lodge  you  no  longer." 

Aderhold  stood  still,  then  turned.  "And  why, 
good  mother?  I  like  my  room  and  the  house.  I  have 
striven  to  be  in  no  way  troublesome."  He  put  his 
hand  in  his  purse  and  drew  it  forth  with  the  alder- 
man's shillings  upon  the  palm.  "You  see  I  have 
money.  You'll  not  lose  by  me." 

25 


THE  WITCH 

A  voice  came  from  the  room  behind  the  woman. 
"Let  him  enter,  mother.  We  would  see  this  fellow 
who  will  make  no  trouble  for  us." 

Aderhold  noted  a  pale  triumph  in  the  woman's 
strong,  lined  face  and  in  her  tense,  updrawn  figure. 
"Aye,  it  happened  to  give  thanks  for ! "  she  told  him. 
"Two  things  happened  this  morning.  A  King  came 
to  the  throne  who,  for  all  his  mother's  scarlet  and 
raging  sins,  has  himself  been  bred  by  godly  men  to 
godly  ways!  And  my  two  sons  came  home  from 
overseas ! ' ' 

She  turned  and  passed  through  the  doorway  into 
the  room  from  which  she  had  come.  Aderhold,  after 
a  moment  of  hesitation,  followed.  It  was  a  large, 
dark  place,  very  cold  and  bare.  Here,  too,  was  a 
table,  drawn  toward  the  middle  of  the  room,  with  a 
cloth  upon  it  and  bread  and  a  piece  of  meat.  Beside 
it,  chair  and  stool  pushed  back,  stood  two  men  — 
the  returned  sons  Aderhold  was  at  once  aware.  He 
had  seen  before  men  like  these  men  —  English  sec- 
taries abroad,  men  who  stood  with  the  Huguenots  in 
France,  and  in  the  Low  Countries  fought  Spain  and 
the  Devil  with  the  soldiers  of  Orange.  Estranged  or 
banished  from  home,  lonely  and  insular,  fighting 
upon  what  they  esteemed  the  Lord's  side,  in  the 
place  where  they  esteemed  the  fight  to  be  hottest, 
they  exhibited  small,  small  love  and  comradeship  for 
those  in  whose  cause  they  fought.  Only,  truly,  in 
conventicles,  could  they  seem  to  warm  to  people  of 
another  tongue  and  history.  Ultra-zealous,  more 

26 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

Calvin  than  Calvin,  trained  to  harshness  in  a  fright- 
ful war,  iron,  fanatic,  back  now  they  came  to  Eng- 
land, the  most  admirable  soldiers  and  the  most 
uncharitable  men! 

The  two  stood  in  their  plain  doublets,  their  great 
boots,  their  small  falling  collars.  They  were  tall  and 
hard  of  aspect,  the  one  bearded,  the  other  with  a 
pale,  clean-shaven,  narrow,  enthusiast's  face.  The 
home-keeping  son  also  had  risen  from  table.  He 
stood  beside  his  mother,  coughing  and  pressing  a 
cloth  to  his  lips. 

The  bearded  man  spoke.  ' '  Good-morrow,  friend !" 

"Good-morrow,  friend,"  answered  Aderhold. 

"You  spoke  that,"  said  the  bearded  man,  "as 
though  you  were  indeed  a  friend,  whereas  we  know 
you  to  be  but  a  Cap  and  Bells  friend." 

"  I  do  not  take  your  meaning,"  said  Aderhold.  "  I 
would  be  friends  — •  no  man  knows  how  I  would  be 
friends  with  men." 

The  shaven  man  spoke.  "Thou  hypocritical  pre- 
late's man!  Why  did  you  let  slip  to  my  mother  that 
the  Cap  and  Bells  was  your  place  of  revelling  and 
roistering  and  blackening  God  to  his  face?  As  if, 
before  we  went  to  the  wars,  the  Cap  and  Bells  was 
not  known  for  what  it  was  —  yea,  and  is !  for  my 
mother  saith  the  leopard  hath  not  changed  his  spots 
nor  the  Ethiop  his  skin  —  a  bishop-loving,  stained- 
glass  praising,  Prayer-Book  upholding,  sacrament 
kneeling,  bowing,  chanting,  genuflecting,  very  pillar 
and  nest  of  prelacy !  drinking-place  of  all  they  who, 

27 


THE  WITCH 

if  they  had  their  wicked  will,  would  give  into  the 
hand  of  ruin  —  yea,  would  pillory  and  stock,  yea, 
would  put  to  the  rack  if  they  might,  yea,  would  give 
to  the  flame  if  they  were  strong  enough !  —  the  Lord's 
chosen  people,  sole  fence  between  this  land  and  the 
fate  of  the  cities  of  the  plain!" 

"There  have  been  before  now,"  said  the  bearded 
man,  "spies  sent  among  the  Lord's  people,  and 
always  such  have  been  received  and  comforted  in 
that  same  house  —  to  wit,  the  Cap  and  Bells!" 

The  consumptive  took  the  red  cloth  from  his  lips. 
"Mother,  mother,  did  I  not  say,  when  the  man 
came,  that  he  had  a  strange  look?" 

"Aye,  Andrew,"  said  the  mother,  "he  went  like  a 
man  with  a  guilty  load  and  watched  his  shadow.  — 
But  I  had  you  to  think  on,  and  the  need  for  bread, 
and  he  paid  me,  which,  God  knoweth!  they  do  not 
always  do.  And  it  came  not  into  my  head,  until, 
before  he  thought,  he  had  said  the  'Cap  and  Bells,' 
that  he  might  be  here  to  spy  and  wring  news  of  us  — 
cozening  us  to  tell  reportable  tales  of  the  Lord's 
Saints!"  She  stopped,  then  spoke  on  with  a  high, 
restrained  passion  and  triumph.  "But  now  —  but 
now  I  think  that  that  is  what  he  is !  But  now  I  am 
not  afraid  —  and  now  he  may  get  his  deserts  —  see- 
ing that  the  new  King  is  surely  for  us,  and  that  my 
sons  have  come  home!" 

"The  new  King!"  exclaimed  the  shaven  man. 
"The  new  King  is  an  old  Stuart!  Lean  upon  that 
reed  and  it  will  pierce  your  hand !  I  tell  that  to  my 

28 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

brother  and  to  you,  mother,  and  you  will  not  be- 
lieve—" 

"Time  will  show,"  said  the  bearded  man  impa- 
tiently. "  Time  will  show  which  of  us  is  right.  But 
to-day  my  mother  can  turn  out  this  bishop's  man, 
neck  and  crop!  Yea,  and  if  he  murmurs  — " 

He  made  a  step  forward,  a*  big-boned,  powerful 
man,  grim  of  countenance.  His  hand  shot  out 
toward  the  physician. 

Aderhold  gave  back  a  step,  then  recovered  him- 
self. "You  are  mistaken,"  he  said.  "I  am  no  spy 
and  I  am  no  bishop's  man.  Like  you,  I  have  been 
from  England.  I  return  poor  and  seeking  physician's 
work.  Desiring  lodging,  I  asked  at  this  house  as  I 
had  asked  at  others,  and  as  honestly  as  a  man  may. 
For  the  Cap  and  Bells,  I  knew  naught  of  it  nor  of  its 
frequenters.  I  crossed  its  threshold  but  once,  and  so 
ill  did  the  place  suit  me  that  I  am  not  like  to  go 
again.  I  tell  you  the  plain  truth." 

The  woman  and  her  sons  regarded  him  fixedly. 
"What  think  you,"  asked  the  shaven  man  at  last, 
abruptly  and  sternly,  "of  the  law  that  maketh  it  an 
offense  for  a  man  to  worship  his  Creator  after  the 
dictates  of  his  own  heart  —  yea,  that  would  compel 
him  to  conform  to  practices  which  his  soul  abhor- 
reth?" 

"I  think,"  said  Aderhold,  "that  it  is  an  evil 
law." 

"You  say  truth,"  answered  the  shaven  man. 
"Now  tell  me  plainly.  Believe  you  in  copes  and 

29 


THE  WITCH 

stoles  and  altars  and  credence  tables,  in  kneeling  at 
communion,  in  Prayer-Book  and  surplice  and  bow- 
ing when  the  name  is  mentioned,  in  bishops  and 
archbishops  and  pride  of  place  before  God?" 

Aderhold  looked  at  him  dreamily.  The  fear  of 
physical  injury,  which  was  the  weakness  that  most 
beset  him,  was  gone  by.  He  had  at  times  a  strange 
sense  of  expansion,  accompanied  by  a  differentiation 
and  deepening  of  light.  The  experience  —  he  knew 
it  to  be  inward,  and  never  steadfast,  very  fleeting  — 
returned  to  him  now.  The  room  looked  world-wide, 
the  four  interlocutors  tribes  and  peoples.  "My 
mind  does  not  dwell  overmuch,"  he  said,  "upon 
matters  such  as  these.  They  are  little  matters.  The 
wrong  is  that  a  man  should  be  made  to  say  they  are 
necessary  and  great  matters,  and,  to  avoid  falseness, 
be  made  to  fight  dwarfs  as  though  ftiey  were  giants. 
—  I  need  no  priest  in  cope  or  surplice  or  especial 
dress  when  all  that  I  am  lifts  in  contemplation  and 
resolve.  I  need  not  kneel  when  All  communes  with 
All.  No  slave  is  my  soul.  Would  I  pray,  I  can  pray 
without  book,  and  would  I  not,  no  book  held  before 
my  face  hath  power  to  pray  for  me.  If  I  bowed  my 
head  at  each  thought  of  the  mystery  that  surrounds 
us,  I  would  not  with  over-much  frequency  walk  erect, 
for  I  think  much  and  constantly  of  that  mystery.  If 
I  bow  my  head  without  thought  —  an  idiot  may  do 
the  same.  As  for  prelates  and  they  who  are  called 
'  spiritual  princes '  —  I  have  seen  not  one  who  is  not 
a  man-chosen  master  of  a  man-built  house." 

30 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

The  woman  spoke  uncertainly.  "  If  we  have  been 
mistaken  in  you,  sir,  — " 

"  What  you  say  has  truth,"  said  the  bearded  man. 
"  But  it  also  has  a  strangeness  and  rings  not  like  our 
truth.  ...  If  you  are  a  Brownist,  this  house  will 
have  naught  to  do  with  you!" 

"I  am  not  a  Brownist,"  said  Aderhold  wearily. 
The  sense  of  space  widening  off  and  intenser  light 
was  gone.  Never  yet  had  it  stayed  but  the  fewest  of 
moments,  and,  going,  it  threw  life  back  upon 
itself.  .  .  . 

But  the  second  son,  who  had  been  standing  with 
an  abstracted  and  distant  look,  started  and  spoke. 
"  Let  him  alone,  mother  and  my  brother!  Whatever 
he  be,  he  hath  no  ill-will  nor  guile  —  "  He  turned  to 
the  table.  "Are  you  hungry?  "  he  asked.  "  Sit  down 
and  eat  with  us." 

Aderhold  dwelt  in  this  house  some  days  longer. 
He  did  not  again  see  the  two  sons;  they  had  taken 
horse  and  ridden  to  visit  some  returned  comrade 
or  officer  in  the  country.  The  woman  he  saw,  and 
sometimes  talked  with,  but  she  had  ceased  to  be 
curious  about  him,  and  they  chiefly  spoke  of  the 
consumptive  boy.  He  was  near  death.  The  physi- 
cian could  only  give  something  that  should  make 
the  nights  pass  more  swiftly,  less  painfully. 

He  himself  wished  to  see  a  physician,  the  physi- 
cian to  whom,  as  to  Cecil,  he  had  been  recommended 
by  a  great  noble  of  France,  but  whom  he  had  not  seen 
since  that  day  in  Richmond,  after  that  hour  in  the 


THE  WITCH 

Queen's  chamber.  He  had  gone  to  his  house  to  en- 
quire —  he  was  yet  out  of  London,  he  would  be 
home  on  such  a  day.  Aderhold  went  then,  but  could 
not  see  him ;  waited  two  days,  and  was  again  denied ; 
went  in  another  three,  and  was  admitted.  The  phy- 
sician was  alone,  in  a  small  room,  and  his  manner 
dry  and  cold. 

If  Aderhold  still  nursed  a  hope  it  was  a  faint  and 
failing  one.  Before  that  day  in  Richmond  the  hope 
had  been  strong.  This  physician  was  a  skilled  man 
and  knew  skill  when  he  saw  it  —  the  great  French- 
man had  written  with  a  guarded  enthusiasm,  but  yet 
with  enthusiasm  of  what  Gilbert  Aderhold  might  do 
—  the  London  physician  had  let  drop  a  hint  that 
he  himself  had  thought  at  times  of  an  assistant — if 
not  that,  he  could  certainly  speak  a  word  in  season 
in  another  quarter.  Aderhold  had  hoped  —  after 
Richmond  he  had  hoped  less  strongly.  Now  he 
found  that  hope  was  failing.  What  had  happened? 
What  always  happened? 

The  physician  continued  standing.  The  room 
opened  upon  a  garden,  and  outside  the  lattice  win- 
dow there  showed  a  tender  mist  of  budding  tree  and 
shrub.  "You  were  so  good,"  said  Aderhold,  "as  to 
bid  me  come  to  you  upon  your  return." 

"I  wished,"  said  the  physician,  "to  give  all 
weight  and  recognition  to  the  commendation  of  the 
Duke  of  — — ."  A  grey  cat  came  and  rubbed  against 
his  ankle.  He  stooped  and  lifting  the  creature  to  the 
table  beside  him  stood  stroking  it.  "The  commen- 

32 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

dation  of  great  noblemen  is  at  times  like  their  lar- 
gesse. It  of  ten  falls — through,  of  course,  no  fault  of 
theirs — before  the  stranger  and  the  unworthy." 

"  If  I  be  unworthy,"  said  Aderhold,  "yet  I  am  not 
strange  to  that  nobleman,  nor,  I  think,  unloved  by 
him.  He  has  been  my  good  patron,  almost,  I  might 
dare  to  say,  my  friend." 

"Aye?"  said  the  physician.  "It  has  come  to 
Court  ears,  with  other  French  news,  that  the  Duke 
is  out  of  favour.  .  .  .  Moreover,  a  friend  of  my  own 
has  lately  returned  from  Paris  where  he  had  long 
resided.  He  is  a  man  of  the  world,  with  a  great 
interest  in  life  and  a  knowledge  of  what  is  talked 
about,  small  things  as  well  as  great.  He  told  me"  — 
the  physician  paused  —  "of  you!11 

"Yes,"  Aderhold  said  dully;  "of  me?" 

"  He  brought  you  in  as  a  slight  case,  but  typical,  of 
what  grows  up  in  the  narrow  strip  between  religious 
wars  and  factions,  between  Leaguer  and  Huguenot 
—  to  wit,  something  that  is  neither  Catholic  nor 
Protestant,  which  the  Leaguer  would  burn  and  the 
Huguenot  would  flay !  He  told  me  of  your  case  and 
your  trial  and  imprisonment,  and  how  none  would 
help  you,  neither  Papist  nor  Reformed,  but  only  this 
one  nobleman  whose  child,  it  seems,  you  had  healed, 
and  even  he  could  only  help  by  helping  you  forth 
from  France."  The  physician  continued  to  draw  his 
hand  over  the  grey  fur.  "  I  quarrel  with  that  noble- 
man for  considering  that  an  atheist  might  prosper 
here  in  England,  and  for  deceivingly  writing  to  me 

33 


THE  WITCH 

only  of  his  skill  in  all  that  pertained  to  his  art!  I 
might,"  said  the  physician,  "have  become  involved 
in  what  discovery  and  disfavour  you  may  bring  upon 
yourself  in  this  realm ! ' ' 

" I  am  not,"  said  Aderhold,  "an  atheist.  Sanction 
and  authority  and  restraint  are  within." 

The  other  shrugged.  "Oh,  your  fine  distinctions ! ' ' 
He  went  to  the  window  and  set  it  wider  so  that  the 
whole  green  garden  and  white  and  rosy  branches  of 
bloom  seemed  to  come  into  the  room.  "  I  am  not," 
he  said,  with  his  back  to  the  lattice,  "myself  a 
theologian.  By  nature  I  am  a  '  live  and  let  live'  man. 
Peter,  Luther,  Calvin,  Mohammed,  and  Abraham 
each  may  have  had  his  own  knowledge  of  heaven  and 
hell!  I  will  not  quarrel  with  knowledge  for  being 
various.  I  am  tolerant  —  I  am  tolerant,  Master 
Aderhold !  But  I  hold  with  emphasis  that  you  must 
not  inculpate  others  —  no,  you  must  not  let  the  edge 
of  your  mantle  of  heresy  touch  another !  It  were  base 
ingratitude,  for  instance,  were  you  — " 

"I  have  been  careful,"  said  Aderhold,  "to  men- 
tion your  name  to  no  one.  I  have  led  since  seeing 
you  a  retired  and  soundless  life.  I  am  a  stranger  in 
this  city  and  none  knows  my  life,  nor  feels  an  inter- 
est in  it." 

The  physician's  countenance  showed  relief.  "I 
did  not  know  of  what  folly  you  might  not  have  been 
capable!"  He  stroked  the  cat,  moved  a  few  paces 
about  the  room  and  returned.  "  I  regret  that  I  can 
give  you  no  aid.  Indeed,  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that 

34 


THE  TWO  PHYSICIANS 

I  owe  it  to  my  family  and  my  patients  and  my  place 
—  which  is  no  slight  one  —  in  the  esteem  of  this 
city,  to  refuse  all  association  with  a  man  who  at  any 
hour  may  fall  under  suspicion  and  prosecution." 
He  paused.  "  I  may  say  to  you  once,  and.  this  once 
only,  that  I  find  your  case  a  hard  one.  I  certainly 
advise  you  not  to  be  stiff-ne'cked,  but  living  in  the 
world  to  conform  to  the  world.  Philosophize,  if  you 
choose,  but  inwardly,  inwardly,  man!" 

He  spoke  quite  amiably,  even  genially.  It  was 
apparent  that  Aderhold  had  taken  his  dismissal, 
that  he  was  not  going  to  beg  or  be  distressful.  He 
considered  through  the  open  casement  the  height  of 
the  sun.  He  could  give  the  unfortunate  man  a 
minute  or  two  longer.  "  Let  us  speak  a  moment,"  he 
said,  "of  our  art.  London  is  thronged  with  doctors. 
I  tell  you  truly  that  there  is  scant  room  for  another, 
even  were  the  circumstances  not  as  they  are,  and 
you  were  as  like  others  as  you  are  unlike.  However 
still  a  tongue  you  may  keep,  —  and  I  think  you  may 
betray  yourself  oftener  than  you  think,  —  you  will 
eventually  be  found  out."  He  lifted  his  finger  im- 
pressively. "  Now  the  temper  of  the  time  is  religious 
and  growing  ever  more  so.  The  Italian  and  antique 
spirit  that  I  remember  is  going  — -  is  almost  gone. 
We  are  all  theologians  and  damn  the  whole  world 
outside  of  our  particular  ark.  People  of  the  old 
faith,  people  of  the  established  faith,  people  of  the 
Presbytery  —  each  of  the  three  detests  and  will 
persecute  the  remaining  two.  Right  and  left  suffer 

35 


THE  WITCH 

from  the  middle,  which  is  in  power,  as  the  middle 
—  and  the  remaining  other  —  would  suffer  were  the 
right  or  left  in  power.  War,  secret  or  open,  war,  war! 
and  they  only  unite  to  plague  a  witch  or  to  run  to 
earth  and  burn  for  heresy  one  like  you  who  belongs 
not  to  right  nor  left  nor  middle.  The  tolerant, 
humane,  philosophic  heart  dissents  —  but  few,  my 
friend,  are  tolerant  and  humane,  too  few,  too  few! 
All  this  being  so,  I  do  not  advise  you  to  remain  in 
London  —  no,  I  should  not,  were  you  Galen 
himself!" 

Aderhold  stood  gazing  at  the  garden  without. 
There  were  thorn  hedges  everywhere  —  across  all 
paths.  "I  do  not  know,"  he  said,  "where  I  should 
go-" 

"My  advice,"  said  his  fellow  physician,  "would 
be  to  travel  to  some  smaller  town  that  hath  never 
received  a  whisper  from  France.  And  now"  —  he 
rose  —  "and  now  I  must  bid  you  good-bye,  for  an 
important  personage  expects  me  at  this  hour." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE   ROSE  TAVERN 

THREE  days  after  this  conversation  Gilbert  Ader- 
hold  said  good-bye  to  the  Puritan  woman  and  her 
son,  shouldered  a  stick  with  a  bundle  at  the  end,  and 
set  his  face  toward  the  periphery  of  London  and  the 
green  country  beyond.  He  had  no  money.  The  idea 
of  asking  his  fellow  physician  for  a  loan  haunted  him 
through  one  night,  but  when  morning  came  the 
ghost  was  laid.  He  strongly  doubted  if  the  other 
would  make  the  loan  and  he  did  not  wish  to  ask  it 
anyhow.  Since  he  had  been  in  London  he  had  given 
a  cast  of  his  art  more  than  once  or  twice  in  this 
neighbourhood.  But  it  was  a  poor  neighbourhood, 
and  those  whom  he  had  served  had  been  piteous 
folk,  and  he  did  not  think  that  they  could  pay.  He 
had  not  asked  them  to  pay.  He  had  no  connections 
in  London,  no  friends.  His  knowledge  of  men  told 
him  that,  for  all  his  tolerance  and  humanity,  the 
fellow  physician  might  be  expected  to  drop  a  word 
of  warning,  here  and  there,  among  the  brotherhood. 
His  hope  had  been  that  his  case  was  so  obscure  that 
no  talk  would  come  from  Paris.  ...  It  was  not  only 
that  the  arm  of  religion  had  been  raised;  he  had 
invoked  in  medicine,  too,  strange  gods  of  observa- 
tion and  experience;  he  had  been  hounded  forth 

37 


THE  WITCH 

with  a  double  cry.  To  linger  in  London,  to  try  to 
work  and  earn  here — with  a  shudder  he  tasted 
beforehand  the  rebuff  that  might  come.  He  would 
leave  London. 

He  was  without  near  kindred.  His  parents  were 
dead,  a  sister  also.  There  was  an  elder  brother,  a 
sea-captain.  Aderhold  had  not  seen  him  for  years, 
and  fancied  him  now  somewhere  upon  the  ocean  or 
adventuring  in  the  New  World.  He  remembered 
his  mother  telling  him  that  there  were  or  had 
been  cousins  to  the  north.  She  had  spoken  of  an 
elderly  man,  living  somewhere  in  a  Grange.  The 
name  was  Hard  wick,  not  Aderhold.  ...  He  had  no 
defined  idea  or  intention  of  seeking  kinsmen,  but 
eventually  he  turned  his  face  toward  the  north. 

It  was  six  in  the  morning  when  he  stepped  forth. 
Slung  beside  his  bundle  of  clothing  and  a  book  or 
two,  wrapped  in  a  clean  cloth,  was  a  great  loaf  of 
bread  which  the  Puritan  woman  had  given  him. 
There  was  a  divine,  bright  sweetness  and  freshness 
in  the  air  and  the  pale-blue  heaven  over  all.  He 
turned  into  Fleet  Street  and  walked  westward. 
The  apprentices  were  opening  the  shops,  country 
wares  were  coming  into  town,  the  city  was  beginning 
to  bustle.  Aderhold  walked,  looking  to  right  and 
left,  interested  in  all.  He  was  not  a  very  young 
man,  but  he  was  young.  Health  and  strength  had 
been  rudely  shaken  by  anxiety,  fear,  and  misery. 
Anxiety  still  hovered,  and  now  and  then  a  swift,  up- 
starting fear  cut  him  like  a  whip  and  left  him  quiver- 

38 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

ing.  But  fear  and  anxiety  were  going  further, 
weakening,  toning  down.  Calm  was  returning,  calm 
and  rainbow  lights. 

Hereabouts  in  the  street  were  all  manner  of  small 
shops,  places  of  entertainment,  devices  by  which  to 
catch  money.  The  apprentices  were  beginning  their 
monotonous  crying,  "What  d'ye  lack?  What  d'ye 
lack?" 

He  came  to  a  booth  where  there  was  a  raree  show. 
A  shock-headed,  ragged  youth  was  taking  down 
the  boards,  which  were  painted  with  figures  of  In- 
dians, copper-hued  and  feathered.  Half  a  dozen 
children  stood  watching. 

Aderhold  stopped  and  watched  also.  "Have  you 
an  Indian  here,"  he  asked  the  boy.  "I  have  never 


seen  one." 


The  youth  nodded.  "  He  sleeps  in  the  corner  back 
of  the  curtain.  You  pay  twopence  to  see  him — " 
He  grinned,  and  looked  at  the  children.  "But  it's 
before  hours,  and  if  so  be  you  won't  tell  master  on 


me—" 


"We  won't,  master,  we  won't!"  chorused  the 
children. 

The  boy  took  down  the  last  board,  showing  a 
concave  much  like  a  den  with  a  black  curtain  at  the 
back.  He  whistled  and  the  curtain  stirred.  "We 
got  him,"  said  the  boy,  "from  two  Spaniards  who 
got  him  from  a  ship  from  Florida.  They  trained  him. 
They  had  a  bear,  too,  that  we  bought,  but  the  bear 
died."  He  whistled  again.  The  curtain  parted  and 

39 


THE  WITCH 

the  Indian  came  forth  and  sat  upon  a  stool  planted 
in  the  middle  of  the  den. 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  been  "  trained." 
Almost  naked,  gaunt,  dull  and  hopeless,  he  sat  with 
a  lack-lustre  eye.  The  boy  whistled  again  and  he 
spoke,  a  guttural  and  lifeless  string  of  words.  The 
children  gathered  close,  flushed  and  excited.  But 
Aderhold's  brows  drew  upward  and  together  and 
he  turned  a  little  sick.  He  was  a  physician ;  he  was 
used  to  seeing  wretchedness,  but  it  had  not  dead- 
ened him.  Every  now  and  then  the  wave  of  human 
misery  came  and  went  over  him,  high  as  space,  in- 
effably dreary,  unutterably  hopeless.  ...  He  stood 
and  looked  at  the  Indian  for  a  few  moments,  then, 
facing  from  the  booth,  walked  away  with  a  rapid 
and  disturbed  step  which  gradually  became  slower 
and  halted.  He  turned  and  went  back.  "  Has  he  eaten 
this  morning?  You  don't  give  him  much  to  eat?  " 

"Times  are  hard,"  said  the  boy. 

Aderhold  took  the  smaller  bundle  from  his  stick, 
unwrapped  it  and  with  his  knife  cut  from  the  loaf  a 
third  of  its  mass.  "May  I  give  him  this?" 

The  boy  stared.   "If  you  choose,  master." 

The  physician  entered  the  booth,  went  up  to  the 
Indian  and  placed  the  bread  upon  his  knee.  "Woe 
are  we,"  he  said,  "that  can  give  no  efficient  help!" 

The  savage  and  the  European  looked  each  other 
in  the  eyes.  For  a  moment  something  hawk-like, 
eagle-like,  came  back  and  glanced  through  the  pupils 
of  the  red  man,  then  it  sank  and  fled.  His  eyes  grew 

40 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

dull  again,  though  he  made  a  guttural  sound  and  his 
hand  closed  upon  the  bread.  The  physician  stood  a 
moment  longer.  He  had  strongly  the  sacred  wonder 
and  curiosity,  the  mother  of  knowledge,  and  he  had 
truly  been  interested  to  behold  an  Indian.  Now  he 
beheld  one  —  but  the  iron  showed  more  than  the 
soul.  "I  am  sorry  for  thee,  my  brother,"  Aderhold 
said  softly. 

The  boy  spoke  from  without.  "Hist,  hist!  Mas- 
ter's coming  down  the  street." 

Aderhold  left  the  booth,  shouldered  his  stick  and 
bundle  and  went  on  his  way. 

He  walked  steadily,  the  sun  at  his  back,  lifting 
through  the  mist  and  at  last  gilding  the  whole  city. 
He  was  now  upon  its  northwestern  fringe,  in  the 
"suburbs."  They  had  an  evil  name,  and  he  was 
willing  to  pass  through  them  hurriedly.  They  had  a 
sinister  look,  —  net- work  of  foul  lanes,  low,  wooden,, 
squinting  houses,  base  taverns  that  leered. 

A  woman  came  and  walked  beside  him,  paint  on 
her  cheeks. 

"Where  are  you  going,  my  bonny  man?"  Then, 
as  he  would  have  outstepped  her,  "What  haste? 
Lord!  what  haste?" 

"  I  have  a  long  way  to  go,"  said  Aderhold. 

"As  long  and  as  short  as  I  have  to  go,"  said  the 
woman.  "  If  you  are  willing  we  might  go  together." 

Aderhold  walked  on,  "I  am  not  for  that  gear, 
mistress." 

' '  No ? ' '  said  the  woman.  * '  Then  for  what  gear  are 


THE  WITCH 

you?  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  am  not  for  it,  either,  but  — 
Lord  God!  one  must  eat!"  She  began  to  sing  in  a 
cracked  voice  but  vaguely  sweet. 

"  A  lass  there  dwelled  in  London  town — 
'Alas! '  she  said,  'Alas! '  she  said, 
'  Of  gold  and  land 
I  Ve  none  in  hand  — ' ' 

They  were  coming  flush  with  the  opening  of  a 
small,  dim  courtyard.  She  broke  off  her  song. 
"Bring  your  stick  and  bundle  in  front  of  you!  This 
is  a  marked  place  for  snatchers." 

Her  warning  was  not  idle.  As  he  shifted  the  stick 
a  shaggy,  bull-headed  man  made  a  move  from 
shadow  to  sunlight,  lurched  against  him  and  grasped 
at  the  bundle.  Aderhold  slipping  aside,  the  fellow 
lost  his  balance  and  came  almost  to  the  ground.  The 
woman  laughed.  Enraged,  the  bull-headed  man 
drew  a  knife  and  made  at  the  physician,  but  the 
woman,  coming  swiftly  under  his  raised  arm,  turned, 
and  grasping  wrist  and  hand,  gave  so  sudden  a 
wrench  that  the  knife  clanked  down  upon  the 
stones.  She  kicked  it  aside  into  the  gutter,  her 
face  turned  to  Aderhold.  "  Be  off,  my  bonny  man ! " 
she  advised.  "No,  he'll  not  hurt  me!  We're  old 
friends." 

Aderhold  left  the  suburbs  behind,  left  London 
behind.  He  was  on  an  old  road,  leading  north.  For 
the  most  part,  during  the  next  few  days,  he  kept  to 
this  road,  though  sometimes  he  took  roughly  parallel- 
ing, less-frequented  ways,  and  sometimes  footpaths 

42 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

through  fields  and  woods.  Now  he  walked  briskly, 
enjoying  the  air,  hopeful  with  the  hopeful  day. 
Sometime  in  the  morning  an  empty  cart  overtook 
him,  the  carter  walking  by  his  horse.  They  walked 
together  up  a  hill  and  talked  of  the  earth  and  the 
planting  and  the  carting  of  stuffs  and  the  rates  paid 
and  the  ways  of  horses.  Level  ground  reached,  the 
carter  offered  a  lift,  and  the  two  travelled  some  miles 
together,  chiefly  in  a  friendly  silence.  At  midday 
Aderhold  unwrapped  his  loaf  of  bread,  and  the  car- 
ter produced  bread,  too,  and  a  bit  of  cheese  and  a 
jug  containing  ale.  They  ate  and  drank,  jogging 
along  by  April  hedges  and  budding  trees.  A  little 
later  the  carter  must  turn  aside  to  some  farm,  and, 
wishing  each  other  well,  they  parted. 

This  day  and  the  next  Aderhold  walked,  by  green 
country  and  Tudor  village  and  town,  by  smithy  and 
mill,  by  country  houses  set  deep  in  giant  trees,  by 
hamlet  and  tavern,  along  stretches  of  lonely  road 
and  through  whispering,  yet  unvanished  forests. 
The  sun  shone,  the  birds  sang,  the  air  was  a  ripple  of 
zephyrs.  The  road  had  its  traffic,  ran  an  unwinding 
ribbon  of  spectacle.  There  were  the  walls  of  country 
and  the  roof  of  sky  and  a  staccato  presence  of  brute 
and  human  life.  Now  horsemen  went  by  —  knightly 
travel  or  merchant  travel,  or  a  judge  or  lawyer,  or 
a  high  ecclesiastic.  Serving-men  walked  or  rode, 
farming  folk,  a  nondescript  of  trade  or  leisure. 
Drovers  came  by  with  cattle,  country  wains,  dogs. 
A  pedlar  with  his  pack  kept  him  company  for  a 

43 


THE  WITCH 

while.  Country  women  passed,  carrying  butter  and 
eggs  to  market,  children  coming  from  school,  three 
young  girls,  lithe,  with  linked  arms,  a  parson  and  his 
clerk,  an  old  seaman,  a  beggar,  a  charcoal-burner,  a 
curious  small  troupe  of  mummers  and  mountebanks, 
and  for  contrast  three  or  four  mounted  men  some- 
what of  the  stripe  of  the  widow's  sons.  One  looked 
a  country  gentleman  and  another  a  minister  of  the 
stricter  sort.  They  gazed  austerely  at  the  mummers 
as  they  passed.  Now  life  flowed  in  quantity  upon  the 
road,  now  the  stream  dwindled,  now  for  long  dis- 
tances there  was  but  the  life  of  the  dust,  tree  and 
plant,  and  the  air. 

When  the  second  sunset  came  he  was  between 
hedged  fields  in  a  quiet,  solitary  country  of  tall  trees, 
with  swallows  circling  overhead  in  a  sky  all  golden 
like  the  halos  around  saints'  heads  in  pictures  that 
he  remembered  in  Italy.  No  house  was  visible,  nor, 
had  one  been  so,  had  he  made  up  his  mind  to  ask  the 
night's  lodging.  The  day  had  been  warm,  even  the 
light  airs  had  sunk  away,  the  twilight  was  balm  and 
stillness.  He  possessed  a  good  cloak,  wide  and  warm. 
With  the  fading  of  the  gold  from  the  sky  he  turned 
aside  from  the  road  upon  which,  up  and  down  as  far 
as  he  could  see,  nothing  now  moved,  broke  through 
the  hedge,  found  an  angle  and  spread  his  cloak 
within  its  two  walls  of  shelter.  The  cloak  was  wide 
enough  to  lie  upon  and  cover  with,  his  bundle  made 
a  pillow.  The  stars  came  out ;  in  some  neighbouring, 
marshy  place  the  frogs  began  their  choiring. 

44 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

Although  he  was  tired  enough,  he  could  not  sleep 
at  once,  nor  even  after  a  moderate  time  of  lying 
there,  in  his  ears  the  monotonous,  not  unmusical 
sound.  He  thought  of  what  he  should  do  to-morrow, 
and  he  could  not  tell.  Walk  on?  Yes.  How  far,  and 
where  should  he  stop?  So  far  he  had  not  begged,  but 
that  could  not  last.  The  colour  came  into  his  cheek. 
He  did  not  wish  to  beg.  And  were  there  no  pride  in 
the  matter,  there  was  the  law  of  the  land.  Beggars 
and  vagabonds  and  masterless  men,  how  hardly 
were  they  dealt  with !  They  were  dealt  with  sav- 
agely, and  few  asked  what  was  the  reason  or  where 
was  the  fault.  Work.  Yes,  he  would  work,  but  how 
and  where?  Dimly  he  had  thought  all  along  of  stop- 
ping at  last  in  some  town  or  village,  of  some  merciful 
opportunity  floating  to  him,  of  tarrying,  staying 
there  —  finding  room  somewhere  —  his  skill  shown 
—  some  accident,  perhaps,  some  case  like  the  alder- 
man's wife  ...  a  foothold,  a  place  to  grip  with  the 
hand,  then  little  by  little  to  build  up.  Quiet  work, 
good  work,  people  to  trust  him,  assurance,  a  cranny 
of  peace  at  last  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  the  light  grow- 
ing. But  where  was  the  cranny,  and  how  would  he 
find  the  way  to  it? 

Over  him  shone  the  Sickle.  He  lay  and  wondered, 
and  at  last  he  slept,  with  the  Serpent  rising  in  the  east. 

Late  in  the  night,  waking  for  a  moment,  he  saw 
that  the  sky  was  overcast.  The  air,  too,  was  colder. 
He  wrapped  the  cloak  more  closely  about  him  and 
slept  again.  When  he  woke  the  day  was  here,  but 

45 


THE  WITCH 

not  such  a  day  as  yesterday.  The  clouds  hung  grey 
and  threatening,  the  wind  blew  chill.  There  set  in  a 
day  of  weariness  and  crosses.  It  passed  somehow. 
Footsore,  at  dusk,  he  knocked  at  a  cotter's  door, 
closed  fast  against  the  wind  which  was  high.  When 
the  family  questioned  him,  he  told  them  that  he  was 
a  poor  physician,  come  from  overseas,  going  toward 
kinspeople.  There  chanced  to  be  a  sick  child  in  the 
cottage ;  they  let  him  stay  for  reading  her  fever  and 
telling  them  what  to  do. 

The  next  day  and  the  next  and  the  next  the  sky 
was  greyer  yet,  and  the  wind  still  blew.  It  carried 
with  it  flakes  of  snow.  The  road  stretched  bare, 
none  fared  abroad  who  could  stay  indoors.  Aderhold 
now  stumbled  as  he  walked.  There  was  a  humming 
in  his  ears.  In  the  early  afternoon  of  his  sixth  day 
from  London  he  came  to  as  lonely  a  strip  of  country 
as  he  had  seen,  lonely  and  grey  and  furrowed  and 
planted  with  a  gnarled  wood.  The  flakes  were  com- 
ing down  thickly. 

Then,  suddenly,  beyond  a  turn  of  the  road,  he 
saw  a  small  inn,  set  in  a  courtyard  among  trees.  As 
he  came  nearer  he  could  tell  the  sign — a  red  rose  on 
a  black  ground.  It  was  a  low-built  house  with  a 
thatched  roof,  and  firelight  glowed  through  the 
window.  The  physician  had  a  bleeding  foot;  he 
was  cold,  cold,  and  dizzy  with  fatigue.  He  had  no 
money,  and  the  inn  did  not  look  charitable.  In  the 
last  town  he  had  passed  through  he  had  bought  food 
and  the  night's  lodging  with  a  portion  of  the  con- 

46 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

tents  of  his  bundle.  Now  he  sat  down  upon  the  root 
of  a  tree  overhanging  the  road,  opened  his  shrunken 
store,  and  considered  that  with  most  of  what  was 
left  he  might  perhaps  purchase  lodging  and  fare 
until  the  sky  cleared  and  his  strength  came  back.  A 
while  before  he  had  passed  one  on  the  road  who  told 
him  that  some  miles  ahead  was  a  fairly  large  town. 
He  might  press  on  to  that  .  .  .  but  he  was  tired,  hor- 
ribly tired,  and  shivering  with  the  cold.  In  the  end, 
keeping  the  bundle  in  his  hand,  he  went  and  knocked 
at  the  door  of  the  Rose  Tavern. 

The  blowsed  servant  wench  who  answered  finally 
brought  her  master  the  host,  a  smooth,  glib  man 
with  a  watery  eye.  He  looked  at  the  stuff  Aderhold 
offered  in  payment  and  looked  at  the  balance  of  the 
bundle.  In  the  end,  he  gestured  Aderhold  into  the 
house.  It  was  warm  within  and  fairly  clean  with  a 
brightness  of  scrubbed  pannikins,  and  in  the  kitchen, 
opening  from  the  chief  room,  a  vision  of  flitches  of 
bacon  and  strings  of  onions  hanging  from  the  rafters. 
Besides  the  serving-maid  and  a  serving-man  there 
was  the  hostess,  a  giant  of  a  woman  with  a  red  ker- 
chief about  her  head.  She  gave  Aderhold  food. 
When  it  was  eaten  he  stretched  himself  upon  the 
settle  by  the  kitchen  hearth,  arms  beneath  his  head. 
The  firelight  danced  on  the  walls,  there  was  warmth 
and  rest.  .  .  . 

Aderhold  lay  and  slept.  Hours  passed.  Then,  as 
the  day  drew  toward  evening,  he  half  roused,  but  lay 
still  upon  the  settle,  in  the  brown  warmth.  There 

47 


THE  WITCH 

was  a  feeling  about  him  of  peace  and  deep  forests, 
of  lapping  waves,  of  stars  that  rose  and  travelled  to 
their  meridians  and  sank,  of  long,  slow  movements 
of  the  mind.  The  minutes  passed.  He  started  full 
awake  with  the  hearing  of  horses  trampling  into  the 
courtyard  and  a  babel  of  voices.  -He  sat  up,  and  the 
serving- wench  coming  at  the  moment  into  the  kitchen 
he  asked  her  a  question.  She  proved  a  garrulous 
soul  who  told  all  she  knew.  The  Rose  Tavern  stood 
some  miles  from  a  good-sized  town.  Those  in  the  yard 
and  entering  the  house  were  several  well-to-do  mer- 
chants and  others  with  their  serving-men.  They  had 
been  to  London,  travelling  together  for  company,  and 
were  now  returning  to  this  town.  There  was  with 
them  Master —  she  could  n't  think  of  his  name  —  of 
Sack  Hall  in  the  next  county.  And  coming  in  at  the 
same  time,  and  from  London,  too,  there  was  old 
Master  Hardwick  who  lived  the  other  side  of  Haw- 
thorn village,  in  a  ruined  old  house,  and  was  a  miser. 
If  he  had  been  to  London  it  would  be  sure  to  have  been 
about  money.  And  finally  there  was  Squire  Carthew's 
brother,  also  from  Hawthorn  way.  He  was  a  fine 
young  man,  but  very  strict  and  religious.  The  com- 
pany was  n't  going  to  stay  —  it  wished  food  and  hot 
drink  and  to  go  on,  wanting  to  reach  the  town  before 
night.  And  here  the  hostess  descended  upon  the  girl 
and  rated  her  fiercely  for  an  idle,  loose- tongue  gab- 
bling wench  — 

Aderhold,  rested,  rose  from  the  settle  and  went 
into  the  greater  room.  Here  were  the  seven  or  eight 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

principal  travellers  —  the  serving-men  being  with- 
out, busy  with  the  riding  and  sumpter  horses.  All  in 
the  room  were  cold,  demanding  warmth  and  drink, 
—  peremptory,  authoritative,  well-to-do  burghers 
of  a  town  too  large  for  village  manners  and  not  large 
enough  for  a  wide  urbanity.  In  a  corner,  on  a  bed 
made  of  a  bench  and  stool,  with  a  furred  mantle  for 
cover,  lay  a  lean  old  man  with  a  grey  beard.  He  was 
breathing  thick  and  hard,  and  now  and  again  he 
gave  a  deep  groan.  A  young  serving-man  stood 
beside  him,  but  with  a  dull  and  helpless  aspect 
toward  sickness.  Across  the  room,  standing  by  a 
window,  appeared  a  man  of  a  type  unlike  the  others 
in  the  room.  Tall  and  well-made,  he  had  a  handsome 
face,  but  with  a  strange  expression  as  of  warring 
elements.  There  showed  a  suppressed  passionate- 
ness,  and  there  showed  a  growing  austerity.  His 
dress  was  good,  but  dark  and  plain.  He  was  booted 
and  cloaked,  and  his  hat  which  he  kept  upon  his 
head  was  plain  and  wide-brimmed.  Aderhold, 
glancing  toward  him,  saw,  he  thought,  one  of  the 
lesser  gentry,  with  strong  Puritan  leanings.  This 
would  be  "Squire  Carthew's  brother." 

As  he  looked,  the  serving-man  left  the  greybeard 
stretched  upon  the  bench,  went  across  to  the  win- 
dow, and,  cap  in  hand,  spoke  a  few  words.  The  man 
addressed  listened,  then  strode  over  to  the  chim- 
ney-corner and  stood  towering  above  the  sick  man. 
"Are  you  so  ill,  Master  Hardwick?  Bear  up,  until 
you  can  reach  the  town  and  a  leech ! " 

49 


THE  WITCH 

Aderhold,  who  had  not  left  the  doorway,  moved 
farther  into  the  room.  Full  in  the  middle  of  it,  a  man 
who  had  had  his  back  to  him  swung  around.  He 
encountered  one  whom  he  had  encountered  before  — 
to  wit,  the  red  and  blue  bully  of  the  Cap  and  Bells. 
Master  Anthony  Mull  did  not  at  first  recognize  him. 
He  was  blustering  against  the  host  of  the  Rose 
because  there  was  no  pasty  in  the  house.  The  phy- 
sician would  fain  have  slipped  past,  but  the  other 
suddenly  gave  a  start  and  put  out  a  pouncing  hand. 
"Ha,  I  know  you!  You're  the  black  sorcerer  and 
devil's  friend  at  the  Cap  and  Bells  who  turned  a 
book  into  a  bowl  of  sack!" 

He  had  a  great  hectoring  voice.  The  travellers  in 
the  room,  all  except  the  group  in  the  corner,  turned 
their  heads  and  stared.  Aderhold,  attempting  to 
pass,  made  a  gesture  of  denial  and  repulsion.  "Ha! 
Look  at  him!"  cried  Master  Anthony  Mull.  "He 
makes  astrologer's  signs  —  warlock's  signs !  Look  if 
he  does  n't  bring  a  fiend's  own  storm  upon  us  ere  we 
get  to  town!" 

Very  quiet,  kindly,  not  easily  angered,  Aderhold 
could  feel  white  wrath  rise  within  him.  He  felt  it 
now  —  felt  a  hatred  of  the  red  and  blue  man.  The 
most  of  those  in  the  room  were  listening.  It  came 
to  him  with  bitterness  that  this  bully  and  liar  with 
his  handful  of  idle  words  might  be  making  it  difficult 
for  him  to  tarry,  to  fall  into  place  if  any  place  invited, 
in  the  town  ahead.  He  had  had  some  such  idea. 
They  said  it  was  a  fair  town,  with  some  learning.  .  .  . 

50 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

He  clenched  his  hands  and  pressed  his  lips  to- 
gether. To  answer  in  words  was  alike  futile  and 
dangerous;  instead,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  he 
pushed  by  the  red  and  blue  man.  The  other  might 
have  followed  and  continued  the  baiting,  but  some 
further  and  unexpected  dilatoriness  exhibited  by  the 
Rose  Tavern  fanned  his  temper  into  conflagration. 
He  joined  the  more  peppery  of  the  merchants  in  a 
general  denouncement  and  prophecy  of  midnight  ere 
they  reached  the  town.  Aderhold,  as  far  from  him 
as  he  could  get,  put  under  the  surge  of  anger  and 
alarm.  He  stood  debating  within  himself  the  propri- 
ety of  leaving  the  inn  at  once,  before  Master  Mull 
could  make  further  mischief.  The  cold  twilight 
and  the  empty  road  without  were  to  be  preferred  to 
accusations,  in  this  age,  of  any  difference  in  plane. 

The  sick  man  near  him  gave  a  deep  groan,  strug- 
gled to  a  sitting  posture,  then  fell  to  one  side  in  a  fit 
or  swoon,  his  head  striking  against  the  wall.  The 
young  serving-man  uttered  an  exclamation  of  dis- 
tress and  helplessness.  The  man  with  the  plain  hat, 
who  had  turned  away,  wheeled  and  came  back  with 
knitted  brows.  There  was  some  commotion  in  the 
room  among  those  who  had  noticed  the  matter,  but 
yet  no  great  amount.  The  old  man  seemed  unknown 
to  some  and  to  others  known  unfavourably. 

Aderhold  crossed  to  the  bench  and  bending  over 
the  sufferer  proceeded  to  loosen  his  ruff  and  shirt. 
"Give  him  air,"  he  said,  and  then  to  the  tall  man, 
"  I  am  a  physician." 


THE  WITCH 

They  laid  Master  Hardwick  upon  a  bed  in  an 
inner  room,  where,  Aderhold  doing  for  him  what  he 
might,  he  presently  revived.  He  stared  about  him. 
"  Where  am  I?  Am  I  at  the  Oak  Grange?  I  thought 
I  was  on  the  road  from  London.  Where  is  Will,  my 
man?" 

"He  is  without,"  said  Aderhold.  "Do  you  want 
him?  I  am  a  physician." 

Master  Hardwick  lay  and  stared  at  him.  "No, 
no!  You  are  a  leech?  Stay  with  me.  .  .  .  Am  I  going 
to  die?" 

"No.  But  you  do  not  well  to  travel  too  far  abroad 
nor  to  place  yourself  where  you  will  meet  great 
fatigues." 

The  other  groaned.  "  It  was  this  one  only  time.  I 
had  monies  at  stake  and  none  to  straighten  matters 
out  but  myself."  He  lay  for  a  time  with  closed  eyes, 
then  opened  them  again  upon  Aderhold.  "I  must 
get  on  —  I  must  get  home  —  I  must  get  at  least  as 
far  as  the  town  to-night.  Don't  you  think  that  I 
can  travel?" 

"  Yes,  if  you  go  carefully,"  said  Aderhold.  "  I  will 
tell  your  man  what  to  do  — " 

The  old  man  groaned.  "He  works  well  at  what  he 
knows,  but  he  knows  so  little.  ...  I  do  not  know  if  I 
will  get  home  alive." 

"How  far  beyond  the  town  have  you  to  go?" 

"Eight  miles  and  more.  .  .  .  Doctor,  are  you  not 
travelling,  too?  You've  done  me  good  —  and  if  I 
were  taken  again — "  He  groaned.  "I'm  a  poor 

52 


THE  ROSE  TAVERN 

man,  —  they  make  a  great  mistake  when  they  say 
I'm  rich,  —  but  if  you'll  ride  with  me  I'll  pay 
somehow  —  " 

Aderhold  sat  in  silence,  revolving  the  matter  in 
his  mind.  "I  have,"  he  said  at  last,  "no  horse." 

But  Master  Hard  wick  had  with  him  a  sumpter 
horse.  "Will  can  now  ride  that  and  now  walk.  You 
may  have  Will's  horse."  He  saw  the  long  miles, 
cold  and  dark,  before  him  and  grew  eager.  "  I  'm  a 
sick  man  and  I  must  get  home,"  He  raised  himself 
upon  the  bed.  "You  go  with  me  —  you've  got  a 
kindly  look  —  you  do  not  seem  strange  to  me. 
What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Gilbert  Aderhold." 

"Aderhold I"  said  Master  Hardwick.  "My  mo- 
ther's mother  was  an  Aderhold." 


CHAPTER  V 

THE   ROAD  TO   HAWTHORN 

IT  was  full  dusk  when  the  London  travellers  did  at 
last  win  away  from  the  Rose  Tavern.  The  evening 
was  cold,  the  snow  yet  falling  in  slow,  infrequent 
flakes.  The  merchants  and  their  men,  together  with 
Master  Anthony  Mull,  first  took  the  road.  Then 
followed  Master  Harry  Carthew,  straight  and  stern, 
upon  a  great  roan  mare.  In  the  rear  came  on  slowly 
old  John  Hardwick,  his  servant  Will,  and  the  physi- 
cian Gilbert  Aderhold.  These  three  soon  lost  sight 
of  the  others,  who,  pushing  on,  came  to  the  town, 
rest,  and  bed,  ere  they  had  made  half  the  distance. 

At  last,  very  late,  the  place  loomed  before  them. 
They  passed  through  dark  and  winding  streets,  and 
found  an  inn  which  Master  Hardwick  knew.  To- 
gether Will  and  Aderhold  lifted  the  old  man  from  his 
horse  and  helped  him  into  the  house  and  into  a  great 
bed,  where  he  lay  groaning  through  the  night,  the 
physician  beside  him  speaking  now  and  again  a 
soothing  and  steadying  word. 

He  could  not  travel  the  next  day  or  the  next. 
Finally  Aderhold  and  Will  wrung  permission  to  hire 
a  litter  and  two  mules.  On  the  third  morning  they 
placed  Master  Hardwick  in  the  litter  and  all  took  the 
street  leading  to  the  road  which  should  bring  them 

54 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

in  the  afternoon  to  the  Oak  Grange.  Going,  they 
passed  a  second  inn,  and  here  Master  Harry  Car- 
thew  suddenly  appeared  beside  them  upon  his  great 
roan.  It  seemed  that  affairs  had  kept  him  likewise 
in  this  town,  but  that  now  he  was  bound  in  their 
direction. 

The  snow  had  passed  into  rain.  The  weather  had 
moderated,  the  rain  ceased,  and  this  morning  there 
was  pure  blue  sky  and  divine  sunlight.  The  latter 
bathed  the  unpaved  streets,  the  timbered,  projecting 
fronts  of  houses,  guildhall  and  shops  and  market- 
place, and  the  tower  and  body  of  a  great  and  ancient 
abbey  church.  Beyond  the  church  the  ground 
sloped  steeply  to  the  river  winding  by  beneath  an 
arched  bridge  of  stone.  Above  the  town,  command- 
ing all,  rose  a  castle,  half-ruinous,  half  in  repair.  The 
streets  were  filled  with  people,  cheerful  in  the  morn- 
ing air.  Litter,  mules,  and  horsemen  moved  slowly 
along.  Honest  Will  drew  a  long  breath.  l '  Pegs !  Who 
would  live  in  the  country  that  could  live  in  a  town?  " 

Aderhold  was  riding  beside  him,  Carthew  being 
ahead  on  his  great  roan  mare.  "Tell  me  something, ' ' 
said  the  physician,  "of  the  country  to  which  we  are 
going.'1 

"The  country's  a  good  country  enough,"  said 
Will.  "But  the  Oak  Grange  —  Lord !  the  Grange  is 
doleful  and  lonely  — " 

"Doleful  and  lonely?" 

"It's  all  buried  in  black  trees,"  said  Will,  "and 
nobody  lives  there  but  our  old  master." 

55 


THE  WITCH 

"Where  does  Master  Carthew  live?" 

"  He  lives  in  the  squire's  house  beyond  the  village. 
He's  the  squire's  brother." 

"  You're  near  a  village?" 

"Aye,  the  village  of  Hawthorn." 

They  rode  on,  Will  gazing  busily  about  him.  They 
were  still  in  the  town,  indeed  in  an  important  part 
of  it,  for  before  them  rose  the  prison.  Without  it 
stood  pillory  and  stocks,  two  men  by  the  legs  in  the 
latter,  a  dozen  children  deliberately  pelting  them 
with  rotten  vegetables,  shards,  and  mud.  Aderhold 
stared  with  a  frown,  the  countryman  with  a  curious 
mixture  of  interest  in  the  event  and  lumpish  indif- 
ference as  to  the  nature  of  it.  "  Aye,"  he  repeated, 
"the  village  of  Hawthorn." 

"Is  there,"  asked  Aderhold,  "a  physician  in  the 
village?" 

They  had  passed  the  prison,  and  were  approach- 
ing the  sculptured  portal  of  the  great  church.  "A 
physician?"  said  Will.  " No.  There  was  one,  but  he 
died  two  years  ago.  Now  they  send  here,  or  the 
schoolmaster  will  bleed  at  a  pinch  or  give  a  drench. 
And  sometimes  they  go  —  but  the  parson  would 
stop  that  —  to  old  Mother  Spuraway." 

They  were  now  full  before  the  great  portal  of  the 
church.  Carthew,  ahead,  stopped  his  horse  to  speak 
to  some  person  who  seemed  an  acquaintance.  His 
halting  in  the  narrow  way  halted  the  mules  with  the 
litter.  Master  Hardwick  had  fallen  into  a  doze.  The 
physician  and  serving-man,  standing  their  horses 

56 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

together,  looked  up  at  the  huge  pile  of  the  church, 
towering  like  a  cliff  immediately  above  them.  On 
each  side  of  the  vast  arched  doorway  had  stood  in 
niches  the  figures  of  saints.  These  were  broken  and 
gone  —  dragged  down  in  the  day  when  the  neigh- 
bouring abbey  was  closed.  But  around  and  about, 
overhead  and  flanking  the  cavernous  entrance, 
had  been  left  certain  carvings  —  a  train  of  them  — 
imps  and  devils  and  woe-begone  folk  possessed  by 
the  foul  fiend.  The  fiend  grinned  over  the  shoulder 
of  one  like  a  monkey,  he  tugged  like  a  wolf  at  the  ear 
of  another,  he  crept  like  a  mouse  from  a  woman's 
mouth.  .  .  .  Aderhold's  gaze  was  upon  the  great 
tower  against  the  sky  and  the  rose-window  out 
of  which  the  stained  glass  was  not  yet  broken.  But 
Will  looked  lower.  Something  presently  causing  the 
physician  to  glance  his  way,  he  was  startled  at  the 
serving-man's  posture  and  expression.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  never  seen  these  stone  figures  before 
—  and,  indeed,  it  proved  that  he  had  never  been 
so  closely  within  the  porch,  and  that,  in  short,  they 
had  never  so  caught  his  attention.  He  was  staring  at 
them  now  as  though  his  eyeballs  and  all  imagination 
behind  them  were  fastened  by  invisible  wires  to  the 
grotesque  and  horrible  carvings.  Into  his  counte- 
nance came  a  creeping  terror  and  a  kind  of  fearful 
exaltation.  Aderhold  knew  the  look  —  he  had  seen 
it  before,  in  France  and  elsewhere,  upon  peasant 
faces  and  upon  faces  that  were  not  those  of  peasants. 
It  was  not  an  unusual  look  in  hie  century.  Again, 

57 


THE  WITCH 

for  the  millionth  time,  imagination  had  been  seized 
and  concentrated  upon  the  Satanic  and  was  creating 
a  universe  to  command.  Will  shivered,  then  he  put 
his  hand  to  his  ear. 

"  There  is  nothing  there,"  said  the  physician, 
"but  your  ear  itself. " 

"Mice  never  come  out  of  men's  mouths,"  said 
Will.  The  physician  knew  the  voice,  too,  the  dry- 
throated,  rigid-tongued  monotone.  "The  comfort 
is  that  most  of  the  wicked  are  women." 

"Then  take  comfort,"  said  Aderhold,  "and come 
away.  Those  figures  are  but  the  imagination  of  men 
like  yourself." 

But  Will  was  not  ready  to  budge.  "Twelfth  night, 
I  was  going  through  the  fields.  They  were  white 
with  snow.  Something  black  ran  across  and  howled 
and  snapped  at  me." 

"A  famished  wolf,"  said  Aderhold. 

"Aye,  it  looked  like  a  wolf.  But  this  is  what 
proved  it  was  n't,"  said  Will.  "That  night  in  Haw- 
thorn Forest  Jock  the  forester  set  a  trap.  In  the 
night-time  he  heard  it  click  down  on  the  wolf  and  the 
wolf  howl.  He  said,  says  he,  '  I  ?ve  got  you  now,  old 
demon!'  and  went  back  to  sleep.  But  at  dawn, 
when  he  went  to  the  trap,  there  was  blood  there  and 
a  tuft  of  grizzled  hair,  but  nothing  else.  And  so  he 
and  his  son  followed  red  spots  on  the  snow  —  right 
through  the  forest  and  across  Town  Road.  And  on 
the  other  side  of  the  road,  where  the  hedge  comes 
down,  they  lost  it  clean  —  not  a  drop  of  blood  nor 

58 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

the  mark  of  a  paw  on  the  snow.  But  the  dog  they 
had  he  ran  about,  and  at  last  he  lifted  his  head  and 
bayed,  and  then  he  started  —  And  where,  sir,  do  you 
think  he  led  them?  He  led  them  to  the  hut  of  old 
Marget  Primrose  between  Black  Hill  and  Hawthorn 
Brook.  And  Marget  was  lying  huddled,  crying  with 
a  bloody  cut  across  her  ankle.  And  they  matched 
the  hair  from  the  trap  with  the  hair  under  her  cap." 

"They  did  not  match  with  care,"  said  Aderhold. 
"And  there  are  many  ways  by  which  a  foot  may  be 
hurt." 

"Nay,"  said  the  serving-man,  "but  when  they 
brought  the  trap  and  thrust  her  leg  in  it  the  marks 
fitted."  He  continued  to  stare  at  the  stone  wolf 
tearing  the  ear.  "That's  been  four  years,  and  never 
since  have  I  been  able  to  abide  the  sight  of  a  wolf! 
.  .  .  Witches  and  warlocks  and  wizards  and  what 
they  call  incubi  and  succubi  and  all  the  demons  and 
fiends  of  hell,  and  Satan  above  saying,  'Hist!  this 
one!'  and  'Hist!  that  one!'  and  your  soul  lost  and 
dragged  to  hell  where  you  will  burn  in  brimstone, 
shrieking,  and  God  and  the  angels  mocking  you  and 
crying,  'Burn!  Burn  forever!'  — •  Nay,  an  if  they  do 
not  get  your  soul,  still  they  ravage  and  ruin  what 
you  have  on  earth  —  blast  the  fields  and  dry  the 
streams,  slay  cow  and  sheep  and  horse,  burn  your 
cot  and  wither  your  strength  of  a  man.  .  .  .  Thicker 
than  May  flies  in  the  air  —  all  the  time  close  around 
you,  whether  you  see  them  or  you  don't  see  them  — 
monkeys  and  wolves  and  bat  wings  flapping.  .  .  . 

59 


THE  WITCH 

Once  something  came  on  my  breast  at  night  — 
Satan,  Satan  avaunt!" 

Aderhold  leaned  across,  seized  the  bridle  of  the 
other's  horse,  and  forcibly  turned  Will  from  further 
contemplation  of  the  sculptured  portal.  "Come 
away,  or  you  will  fall  down  in  a  fit!" 

Carthew  ahead  was  in  motion,  the  mules  with  the 
litter  following.  Will  rode  for  a  few  paces  with  a 
dazed  look  which  was  gradually  replaced  by  his 
usual  aspect.  The  red  came  back  into  his  cheeks,  the 
spring  into  his  figure.  By  the  time  they  had  reached 
the  bridge  he  was  ready  for  something  palely  re- 
sembling a  disinterested  discussion  of  the  super- 
natural. 

"Isn't  it  true,  sir,  that  witch  or  warlock,  how- 
ever they've  been  roaming,  must  take  their  own 
shape  when  they  cross  running  water?'* 

"Whatever  shape  matter  takes  is  its  own  shape," 
said  the  physician,  "and  would  be  though  we  saw  it 
in  a  thousand  shapes,  one  after  the  other.  I  have 
never  seen,  nor  expect  to  see,  a  witch  or  warlock." 

"Why,  where  have  you  travelled,  sir?"  asked  the 
yeoman  bluntly;  then,  without  waiting  for  an  an- 
swer, "They're  hatching  thick  and  thicker  in  Eng- 
land, though  not  so  thick  as  they  are  in  Scotland. 
In  Scotland  they're  very  thick.  Our  new  King, 
they  say,  does  most  fearfully  hate  them!  Parson 
preached  about  them  not  long  ago.  He  said  that 
we'd  presently  see  a  besom  used  in  this  kingdom 
that  would  sweep  such  folk  from  every  corner  into 

60 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

the  fire!  He  read  from  the  Bible  and  it  said,  'Thou 
shalt  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live!'" 

He  spoke  with  considerable  cheer,  the  apple-red 
back  in  his  cheeks.  "It's  good  to  feel,"  he  said, 
"that  they  are  nearly  all  women." 

They  were  trampling  across  the  bridge,  on  either 
hand  the  sparkling  water,  a*bove  their  heads  the 
vivid  sky.  "They  are  neither  man  nor  woman," 
said  Aderhold.  "They  are  naught.  There  are  no 
witches." 

He  had  spoken  abstractedly,  and  more  unguard- 
edly than  was  his  wont.  The  words  were  no  sooner 
from  his  tongue  than  he  felt  alarm.  They  were  not 
safe  words  to  have  spoken,  even  in  such  simple 
company  as  this.  He  looked  aside  and  found  that 
Will  was  staring,  round-eyed.  "No  witches? "  asked 
Will  slowly.  "  Parson  saith  that  none  but  miscreants 
and  unbelievers — " 

"Tell  me  about  your  church  and  parson,"  said 
Aderhold  calmly,  and,  aided  by  a  stumble  of  Will's 
horse  and  some  question  from  the  litter  behind  them, 
avoided  for  that  time  the  danger. 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  left  behind  the  wind- 
ing river  and  the  town  that  climbed  to  the  castle, 
clear-cut  and  dark  against  the  brilliant  sky.  Before 
them,  lapped  in  the  golden  sunshine,  spread  a  rich 
landscape.  Field  and  meadow,  hill  and  dale,  crystal 
stream  and  tall,  hanging  woods,  it  nickered  and 
waved  in  the  gilt  light  and  the  warm,  blowing  wind. 
There  were  many  trees  by  the  wayside,  and  in  their 

61 


THE  WITCH 

branches  a  singing  and  fluttering  of  birds.  The  dis- 
tance shimmered ;  here  was  light  and  here  were  violet 
shadows  and  everywhere  hung  the  breath  of  spring. 
From  a  hilltop  they  saw,  some  miles  away,  roofs  and 
a  church  tower.  "Hawthorn  Village,"  said  Will. 
"The  Oak  Grange  is  two  miles  the  other  side." 

Master  Hardwick  parted  the  curtains  of  the  litter 
and  called  to  the  physician.  His  heart,  he  said,  was 
beating  too  slowly;  it  frightened  him,  he  thought  it 
might  be  going  to  stop.  Aderhold  reassured  him. 
He  had  a  friendly,  humorous,  strengthening  way  with 
his  patients;  they  brightened  beneath  his  touch,  and 
this  old  man  was  no  exception.  Master  Hardwick 
was  comforted  and  said  that  he  thought  he  could 
sleep  a  little  more.  His  lean  hand  clutched  the 
other's  wrist  as  he  stood  dismounted  beside  him, 
litter  and  mules  and  Will  on  the  sumpter  horse  hav- 
ing all  stopped  in  the  lee  of  a  green  bank  disked  with 
primroses.  Master  Hardwick  made  signs  for  the 
physician  to  stoop.  "Eh,  kinsman,"  he  whispered. 
"You  and  I  are  the  only  Aderholds  in  this  part  of  the 
world.  And  you  are  a  good  leech  —  a  good  leech! 
Would  you  stay  at  the  Oak  Grange  for  your  lodging, 
man?  I  've  no  money  —  no  money  at  all  —  but  I  'd 
lodge  you  — -" 

The  miles  decreased  between  the  cavalcade  and 
the  village.  Aderhold  was  riding  now  alone,  Car- 
thew  still  ahead,  and  Will  fallen  back  with  the  litter. 
Looking  about  him,  the  physician  found  something 
very  rich  and  fair  in  the  day  and  the  landscape.  Not 

62 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

for  a  long  time  had  he  had  such  a  feeling  of  health 
and  moving  peace,  a  feeling  that  contained  neither 
fever  nor  exhaustion.  There  was  a  sense  of  clarity, 
strength,  and  fineness;  moreover,  the  scene  itself 
seemed  to  exhibit  something  unusual,  to  have  a 
strangeness  of  beauty,  a  richness,  a  quality  as  of  a 
picture  where  everything  is  ordered  and  heightened. 
It  had  come  about  before,  this  certain  sudden  inter- 
fusion, or  permeation,  or  intensity  of  realization, 
when  all  objects  had  taken  on  a  depth  and  glow, 
lucidity,  beauty,  and  meaning.  The  countryside 
before  him  was  for  an  appreciable  moment  trans- 
figured. He  saw  it  a  world  very  lovely,  very  rich. 
It  was  noble  and  good  in  his  eyes  —  it  was  the 
dear  Earth  as  she  might  always  be.  ...  The  glow 
went  as  it  had  come,  and  there  lay  before  him  only 
a  fair,  wooded  English  countryside,  sun  and  shadow 
and  the  April  day. 

He  saw  the  village  clearly  now,  with  a  sailing  of 
birds  about  the  church  tower.  Carthew,  who  had 
kept  steadily  ahead,  occupied  apparently  with  his 
own  meditations,  checked  his  horse  and  waited  until 
the  other  came  up  with  him,  then  touched  the  roan 
with  his  whip  and  he  and  the  physician  went  on 
together. 

There  was  something  about  this  young  man  that 
both  interested  and  repelled.  He  was  good-looking 
and  apparently  intelligent.  Silence  itself  was  no  bar 
to  liking,  often  it  was  quite  the  reverse.  But  Car- 
thew's  was  no  friendly  and  flowing  quiet.  His  silence 

63 


THE  WITCH 

had  a  harsh  and  pent  quality.  He  looked  often  like  a 
man  in  a  dream,  but  the  dream  had  in  it  no  suavity, 
but  appeared  to  contemplate  high  and  stern  and 
dreadful  things.  Aderhold  looked  instinctively  first 
at  a  man's  eyes.  Carthew's  eyes  were  earnest  and 
intolerant.  In  the  lower  part  of  his  face  there  was 
something  that  spoke  of  passions  sunken,  covered 
over,  and  weighted  down. 

The  two  rode  some  little  distance  without  speak- 
ing, then  Carthew  opened  his  lips  abruptly.  "How 
do  you  like  this  country?" 

"I  like  it  well,"  said  Aderhold.  "It  is  a  fair 
country." 

"Fair  and  unfair,"  answered  the  other.  " It  rests 
like  every  other  region  under  the  primal  Curse  — 
The  old  man,  back  there,  has  taken  a  fancy  to  you 
and  calls  you  his  kinsman.  Do  you  expect  to  bide  at 
the  Oak  Grange?" 

"I  think  it  truth  that  I  am  his  kinsman,"  an- 
swered Aderhold.  "For  the  other — I  do  not 
know." 

"He  is  misliked  hereabouts,"  said  Carthew.  "He 
is  old  and  miserly.  Those  who  have  goods  and  gear 
like  him  not  because  he  will  not  spend  with  them, 
and  those  who  have  none  like  him  not  because  he 
gives  nothing.  The  Oak  Grange  is  a  ruinous  place." 

The  village  now  opened  before  them,  a  consider- 
able cluster  of  houses,  most  of  them  small  and  poor, 
climbing  a  low  hill  and  spreading  over  a  bit  of 
meadow.  The  houses  were  huddled  together,  but 

64 


THE  ROAD  TO  HAWTHORN 

they  enclosed  a  village  green  and  here  and  there  rose 
old  trees,  or  showed  a  tiny  garden.  At  the  farther 
end,  on  the  higher  ground,  the  church  lifted  itself, 
dominating.  Beyond  it  ran  the  highway  still.  The 
landscape  was  fair,  with  hill  and  dale,  and  to  the 
right,  against  the  horizon,  violet-hued  and  misty,  an 
old  forest. 

Aderhold  looked  somewhat  wistfully  at  the  scene 
before  him.  He  had  passed  through  much  of  harm 
and  peril.  Body  and  mind  he  wanted  rest,  quiet 
routine,  for  a  time  some  ease.  "It  looks  a  place 
where  peace  might  be  found,"  he  said. 

"Five  years  ago,"  said  Carthew,  "we  had  the 
sweating  sickness.  Many  died.  Then  all  saw  the 
shadow  from  the  lifted  Hand." 

"  It  is  wholesome  now?" 

"Aye,"  answered  the  other,  "until  sin  and  denial 
again  bring  bodily  grief." 

Aderhold  glanced  aside  at  his  companion.  The  lat- 
ter was  riding  with  a  stern  and  elevated  countenance, 
his  lips  moving  slightly.  The  physician  knew  that 
look  no  less  than  he  had  known  the  serving-man's. 

"  Is  it  not,"  demanded  Carthew,  "  is  it  not  marvel- 
lous how  the  whole  Creation  groaneth  and  travail- 
eth  with  the  knowledge  of  her  doom !  How  contempt- 
ible and  evil  is  this  world !  Yet  here  we  are  sifted 
out  —  and  not  the  wise  man  of  old,  nor  the  heathen, 
nor  the  ignorant,  nor  the  child  in  his  cradle  is  ex- 
cused! Is  it  not  marvellous  how,  under  our  very 
feet,  men  and  women  and  babes  are  burning  in 

65 


THE  WITCH 

hell !  How,  for  Adam's  sin,  all  perish  save  only  the 
baptized  believer  —  and  he  is  saved  in  no  wise  of  his 
own  effort  and  merit,  but  only  of  another's!  How 
God  electeth  the  very  damned  —  and  yet  is  their 
guilt  no  whit  the  less!  Is  it  not  marvellous!" 

"Aye,  fabulously  marvellous,"  said  Aderhold. 

"The  sense  of  sin!"  pursued  Carthew.  "How  it 
presses  hard  upon  my  heart!  The  sense  of  sin!" 

Aderhold  was  silent.  He  possessed  a  vivid  enough 
realization  of  his  many  and  recurring  mistakes  and 
weaknesses,  but,  in  the  other's  meaning,  he  had  no 
sense  of  sin. 

They  came  to  the  village  and  rode  through  it,  the 
litter  arousing  curiosity,  allayed  every  few  yards  by 
Will's  statements.  Aderhold  observed  the  lack  of 
any  sympathy  with  the  sick  old  man,  even  the  growl- 
ing note  with  which  some  of  the  people  turned  aside. 
There  was  the  usual  village  traffic  in  the  crooked 
street,  the  small  shops  and  the  doorways.  Children 
were  marching  with  the  geese  upon  the  green,  where 
there  was  a  pond,  and  near  it  the  village  stocks. 
Housewives,  with  tucked-up  skirts  and  with  pattens, 
—  for  an  April  shower  had  made  mire  of  the  ways,  — 
clattered  to  and  fro  or  sat  spinning  by  window  or 
door.  Many  of  the  men  were  in  the  fields,  but  there 
were  left  those  who  traded  or  were  mechanic,  as  well 
as  the  aged,  sitting,  half-awake,  half-asleep,  in 
sunny  spots.  It  was  the  usual  village  of  the  time, 
poor  enough,  far  from  clean,  ignorant  and  full  of 
talk,  and  yet  not  without  its  small  share  of  what 

66 


THE  ROAD  TO   HAWTHORN 

then  counted  for  human  flower  and  fruition,  nor 
without  promise  of  the  future's  flower  and  fruition. 

They  rode  by  the  church,  set  in  dark  yews. 
Almost  in  its  shadow  rose  a  plain  stone  house. 
"Master  Thomas  Clement,  the  minister's,"  said 
Carthew.  "  Hawthorn  hath  a  godly  and  zealous  pas- 
tor !  The  town  behind  us  is  all  for  prelates  and  vest- 
ments and  a  full  half  at  least  of  the  old  superstitions. 
But  Hawthorn  and  the  country  to  the  north  have 
purged  themselves  as  far  as  they  safely  may." 

Out  upon  the  open  road  again  they  saw  to  the  left, 
back  among  trees  upon  a  low  hilltop,  a  large  and 
well-built  house.  "Carthew  House,"  said  Carthew, 
"where  I  live.  But  I  think  that  I  will  ride  on  with 
you  to  the  Oak  Grange." 

Presently,  leaving  the  highway,  they  took  a  rough 
and  narrow  road  that  led,  first  through  fields  and 
then  through  uncultivated  country,  toward  the 
great  wood  that  had  been  for  some  time  visible. 
""Hawthorn  Forest,"  said  Carthew.  They  rode  a 
mile  in  silence,  the  wood  growing  darker  and  taller 
until  it  reared  itself  immediately  before  them.  To 
the  right,  at  some  little  distance  from  the  road  and 
almost  upon  the  edge  of  the",  forest,  stood  a  thatch- 
roofed  cottage  with  a  dooryard  where,  later,  flowers 
would  bloom,  and  under  the  eaves  a  row  of  bee- 
hives. "Heron's  cottage,"  said  Carthew.  "Old  He- 
ron lives  there,  who  in  the  old  times  was  clerk  to 
the  steward  of  the  castle." 

They  entered  the  wood.    It  was  dark  and  old, 

67 


THE  WITCH 

parts  of  it  not  having  been  cut  since  Saxon  times. 
Their  road,  which  was  now  hardly  more  than  a  cart 
track,  crossed  but  an  angle,  the  Oak  Grange  lying 
beyond  in  open  country.  But  for  some  minutes  they 
were  sunk  in  a  wilderness  of  old  trees,  with  a 
spongy,  leaf -thickened  earth  beneath  the  horses' 
hoofs.  The  sunshine  fell  shattered  through  an  inter- 
lacing of  boughs  just  beginning  to  take  on  a  hue  of 
spring.  Every  vista  closed  in  a  vaporous  blue. 

A  woman  was  gathering  faggots  in  the  wood.  As 
they  came  nearer  she  straightened  herself  and  stood, 
watching  them.  She  was  young  and  tall,  grey-eyed „ 
and  with  braided  hair  the  colour  of  ripe  wheat. 
" Heron's  daughter,"  said  Carthew  when  they  had 
passed.  "She  should  cover  her  hair  like  other  wo- 
men with  a  cap.  It  is  not  seemly  to  wear  it  so,  in 
braids  that  shine." 

They  were  presently  forth  from  the  forest ;  before 
them  a  stretch  of  fields  no  longer  well  husbanded,  a 
stream  murmuring  among  stones,  a  bit  of  orchard, 
and  an  old,  dilapidated  dwelling,  better  than  a  farm 
house,  less  than  a  manor  house,  all  crusted  with  lichen 
and  bunched  with  ivy.  A  little  removed  stood  the 
huge  old  granary  that  had  given  the  place  its  name, 
but  it,  too,  looked  forlorn,  ruinous,  and  empty. 
' l  The  Oak  Grange, ' '  said  Carthew.  i '  People  say  that 
once  it  was  a  great  haunt  of  elves  and  fairies,  and 
that  they  are  yet  seen  of  moonlight  nights,  dancing 
around  yonder  oak.  They  dance  —  but  every  seven 
years  they  pay  a  tithe  of  their  company  to  hell." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  MAN   WITH  THE  HAWK 

ADERHOLD  saw  no  fairies,  though  sometimes  @f 
moonlight  nights  he  pleased  his  fancy  by  bringing 
them  in  his  mind's  eye  in  a  ring  around  the  oak. 
Hours  —  days  —  weeks  passed,  and  still  he  abode 
at  the  Oak  Grange. 

Together  he  and  Master  Hardwick  had  gone  over 
an  ancient  record.  There  was  the  Aderhold  line, 
intertwining  with  the  Hardwick.  The  blood-tie  was 
not  close,  but  it  was  there.  Back  in  the  reign  of  the 
sixth  Henry  they  found  a  common  ancestor  in  one 
Gilbertus  Aderhold,  slain  on  Bosworth  Field.  The 
blood-warmth  was  between  them.  Moreover,  the 
old  man  had  turned  with  a  strong  liking  to  this 
present  Aderhold,  and  besides  all  there  was  his  fear 
of  illness  and  death.  How  well  to  have  a  leech 
always  at  hand!  At  last  it  came  to  "Will  you  live 
here  for  your  roof  and  keep?  I  could  not  give  you 
money  —  no,  no!  I  have  no  money  to  give." 

Refuge  —  security  —  here  in  this  silent  place, 
behind  the  great  screen  of  Hawthorn  Wood.  .  .  . 
Aderhold  stayed  and  was  glad  to  stay,  and  served 
the  old  man  well  for  his  keep.  The  region  grew  to 
know  that  here  was  old  Master  Hardwick's  kinsman, 
brought  with  him  when  he  came  back  from  London, 

69 


THE  WITCH 

to  live  with  him  and  doubtless  become  his  heir.  He 
was  a  leech.  Goodman  Cole,  living  by  the  forest,  fell 
ill  of  a  racking  cough  and  a  burning  fever,  sent  for 
the  doctor  at  the  Grange,  was  swiftly  better,  and 
sang  the  leech's  praises.  As  time  wore  on  he  began 
to  be  sent  for  here  and  there,  chiefly  to  poor  people's 
houses.  Eventually  he  doctored  many  of  such 
people,  now  in  the  village,  now  in  the  country  round- 
about. Few  of  the  well-to-do  employed  him;  they 
sent  to  the  town  for  a  physician  of  name.  He  asked 
little  money  for  his  services;  he  did  not  press  the 
poor  for  payment,  and  often  as  not  remitted  the 
whole.  He  earned  enough  to  keep  him  clad,  now  and 
then  to  purchase  him  a  book. 

He  soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  whatever 
store  of  gold  Master  Hardwick  might  once  have  had, 
it  was  now  a  dwindling  store.  In  whatever  secret 
place  in  his  gaunt,  bare  room  the  old  man  kept  his 
wealth,  he  was,  Aderhold  thought,  nearing  the  bot- 
tom layer.  There  was  a  rueful  truth  in  the  anxiety 
with  which  he  regarded  even  the  smallest  piece  of 
either  metal  he  must  produce  and  part  with.  And  if, 
at  the  Oak  Grange,  there  was  little  of  outgo,  there 
was  still  less  of  income.  The  land  which  went  with 
the  Grange  was  poor  and  poorly  tilled.  There  was  a 
cot  or  two  with  tenants,  dulled  labourers,  dully 
labouring.  Mostly  they  paid  their  rent  in  kind.  He 
heard  it  said  that  in  his  middle  life  Master  Hard- 
wick  had  ventured  with  some  voyage  or  other  to  the 
Indies,  and  had  received  in  increase  twenty  times 

70 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

his  venture.  If  so,  he  thought  that  his  venture  must 
have  been  but  small. 

Master  Hardwick  kept  but  the  one  man,  Will  the 
smith's  son,  who  did  not  sleep  at  the  Grange,  but 
came  each  morning  and  cared  for  the  horse  and  the 
cow  and  the  garden.  Within  doors  there  was  old 
Dorothy,  who  cooked  and  cleaned,  and,  now  in  and 
now  out,  there  strayed  a  lank,  shy,  tousle-headed 
boy,  her  nephew.  The  old  house  was  dim  and  still, 
as  out  of  the  world  as  a  house  may  be.  Master  Hard- 
wick  rarely  stirred  abroad.  There  was  in  truth  a  lack 
of  health.  The  physician  thought  that  the  old  man 
had  not  many  years  to  live.  Aderhold  set  himself 
with  a  steady  kindness  to  doing  what  could  be  done, 
to  giving  sympathy  and  understanding,  and  when 
the  old  man  wished  it,  companionship.  Sitting  in 
the  dim  house  with  him,  facing  him  at  table  over 
their  scant  and  simple  fare,  listening  to  his  brief  talk, 
the  physician  came  to  find,  beneath  a  hard  and  re- 
pellent exterior,  something  sound  enough,  an  hon- 
esty and  plain-dealing.  And  Master  Hardwick,  with 
a  hidden  need  both  to  feel  and  receive  affection, 
turned  and  clung  to  the  younger  man. 

Visitors  of  any  nature  rarely  came  to  the  Oak 
Grange.  The  place  was  as  retired  as  though  fern- 
seed  had  been  sprinkled  about  and  the  world  really 
could  not  see  it.  Once,  during  this  early  summer, 
Harry  Carthew  came,  riding  across  the  stream  upon 
his  great  roan.  But  this  day  Aderhold  was  away,  one 
of  the  tenants  breaking  a  leg  and  a  small  child  being 


THE  WITCH 

sent  wailing  with  the  news  to  the  Grange.  And  Mas- 
ter Thomas  Clement  came,  alike  afresh  to  reason 
with  the  miser  and  to  view  this  new  parishioner. 

Aderhold  saw  him  cross  the  stream  by  the  foot- 
bridge and  come  on  beneath  the  fairy  oak.  He  knew 
who  it  was,  and  he  had  time  to  map  his  course.  He 
had  made  up  his  mind  —  he  was  worn  and  weary 
and  buffeted,  he  was  now  for  peace  and  quiet  living. 
He  tied  a  millstone  around  the  neck  of  the  Gilbert 
Aderhold  of  Paris  and  sank  him  deep,  deep!  The 
minister  stayed  no  great  while  and  directed  most  of 
his  discourse  toward  Master  Hard  wick.  When  he 
turned  to  Aderhold,  the  latter  said  little,  listened 
much,  answered  circumspectly,  and  endued  himself 
with  an  agreeing  inclination  of  the  head  and  an  air  of 
grave  respect.  When  the  minister  was  gone,  he  went 
and  lay  beneath  the  fairy  oak,  in  the  spangly  twi- 
light, his  head  buried  in  his  arms. 

The  next  Sunday  he  went  to  church  and  sat  with  a 
still  face,  watching  the  sands  run  from  the  pulpit 
glass.  There  were  facts  about  the  region  which  he 
had  gathered.  The  town  a  few  miles  away  with  the 
earl's  seat  above  it  was  prelatical  and  all  for  "super- 
stitious usages."  The  country  between  town  and 
village  might  be  called  debatable  ground.  But 
Hawthorn  Village  and  the  region  to  the  north  of  it 
might  have  been  approved  by  Calvin  or  by  Knox. 

Sitting  far  back,  in  the  bare,  whitewashed  church, 
he  remarked  men  and  women  truly  happy  in  their 
religion,  men  and  women  who  showed  zeal  if  not 

72 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

happiness,  men  and  women  who  wore  zeal  because 
it  was  the  fashionable  garment,  men  and  women, 
born  followers,  who  trooped  behind  zeal  in  others, 
and  uttered  war-cries  in  a  language  not  their  own. 
In  the  pulpit  there  was  flaming  zeal.  The  sermon 
dealt  with  miracles  and  prodigies,  with  the  locali- 
ties of  heaven  and  hell,  with  Death  and  the  Judge- 
ment —  Death  that  entered  the  world  five  thousand 
and  six  hundred  and  odd  years  ago.  "For  before 
that  time,  my  hearers,  neither  man  nor  animal  nor 
flower  nor  herb  died!" 

Aderhold  walked  that  summer  far  and  wide,  learn- 
ing the  countryside.  Now  he  wandered  in  deep 
woods,  now  he  climbed  the  hills  and  looked  upon  the 
fair  landscape  shining  away,  now  he  entered  leafy, 
hidden  vales,  or  traced  some  stream  upward  to  its 
source,  or  downward  to  the  murmur  of  wider  waters. 
Several  times  he  walked  to  the  town.  Here  was  a 
bookshop,  where,  if  he  could  not  buy,  he  could  yet 
stand  awhile  and  read.  .  .  .  He  loved  the  view  of  this 
town  with  the  winding  river  and  the  bridge,  and 
above  the  climbing  streets  the  old  castle  and  the 
castle  wood.  He  liked  to  wander  in  its  streets  and  to> 
mark  the  mellow  light  upon  its  houses.  Now  and 
then  he  went  into  the  great  church  where  the  light 
fell  through  stained  glass  and  lay  athwart  old  pillars. 
Once  he  found  himself  here,  sitting  in  the  shadow  of 
a  pillar,  when  people  began  to  enter.  Some  especial! 
service  was  to  be  held,  he  knew  not  wherefore.  The 
organ  rolled  and  he  sat  where  he  was,  for  he  loved 

73 


THE  WITCH 

music.  There  was  a  sermon,  and  it  was  directed 
against  Puritan  and  Presbyterian,  and  more  espe- 
cially against  that  taint  of  Republicanism  which 
clung  to  their  Geneva  cloaks.  No  such  imputation 
breathed  against  the  surplice.  The  Divine  Right  of 
Kings.  — •  The  duty  of  Passive  Obedience. — Authority! 
Authority!  Authority!  It  rolled  through  the  church, 
boomed  forth  with  passion. 

Aderhold,  coming  out  into  the  sunshine,  walked 
through  the  town  and  found  himself  upon  the  Lon- 
don road.  It  was  high  summer,  the  sun  yet  far  aloft, 
and  when  it  sank  the  round  pearl  of  the  moon  would 
rise.  He  had  not  before  walked  upon  this  road.  An 
interest  stirred  within  him  to  view  the  country  to- 
ward the  Rose  Tavern,  travelled  through  in  the  dark- 
ness that  night.  He  left  the  town  behind  him  and 
walked  southward.  Between  two  and  three  miles 
out,  he  saw  before  him  a  little  rise  in  the  road,  and 
crowning  it,  a  gibbet  with  some  bones  and  shrivelled 
flesh  swinging  in  the  chains.  It  was  nothing  uncom- 
mon ;  he  had  seen  in  France  a  weary  number  of  such 
signposts,  and  on  this  great  road,  coming  north  from 
London,  he  had  twice  passed  such  a  thing.  It  was  so 
fair  and  soft  a  summer's  day,  the  gauzy  air  filled 
with  dancing  sunbeams,  the  sky  a  melting  blue  — 
the  very  upright  and  cross  of  the  gibbet  faded  into  it 
and  seemed  robbed  of  horror.  Indeed,  long  usage 
had  to  the  eyes  of  most  robbed  it  of  frightfulness  at 
any  hour,  unless  it  was  in  the  dead  of  night  when  the 
chains  creaked,  creaked,  and  something  sighed. 

74 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

The  traffic  of  the  road  went  talking  and  jesting  by, 
with  hardly  a  glance  aside  at  the  arm  across  the 
sky. 

Aderhold  sat  down  upon  the  opposite  bank,  amid 
fern  and  foxglove,  and  with  his  chin  in  his  hand 
regarded  the  gibbet.  Now  and  again  man  and  beast 
passed,  but  they  paid  no  attention  to  the  dusty, 
seated  figure.  For  the  greater  while  the  road  lay 
bare.  He  gazed,  dreaming,  and  through  the  mists  of 
time  he  seemed  to  see  Judea.  .  .  . 

At  last  he  spoke.  "Carpenter  of  Nazareth!  Man 
as  we  are  men,  but  a  Prince  in  the  house  of  Moral 
Genius!  Born  with  thy  heritage,  also,  of  an  ancient, 
savage  faith,  in  thine  ears,  still,  old  saws  of  doom, 
on  thy  lips  at  times  hard  sayings  of  that  elder 
world,  in  thy  mind,  yet  unresolved,  more  than  one 
of  the  ancient  riddles.  .  .  .  But  thou  thyself,  through 
all  the  realm  of  thy  being,  rising  into  the  clearer 
light,  lifting  where  we  all  shall  lift  one  day,  trans- 
figuring life ! .  .  .  Genius  and  Golden  Heart  and  Pure 
Courage  and  Immortal  Love.  .  .  .  Condemned  by  a 
Church,  handed  over  by  it  to  the  secular  arm,  gone 
forth  to  thy  martyr's  death  —  and  still,  Sage  and 
Seer !  misunderstood  and  persecuted, — and  still  thou 
standest  with  the  martyrs  .  .  .  slain  afresh  by  many, 
and  not  least  by  those  who  call  themselves  thine. 
Wisdom,  freedom,  love.  .  .  .  Love — Love — Love!" 

The  fox-gloves  nodded  around  him.  He  drew 
toward  him  a  long  stem  and  softly  touched,  one  by 
one,  the  purple  bells.  "Freedom  —  love!  .  .  .  Thou 

75 


THE  WITCH 

flower!  When  shall  we  see  how  thou  flowest  into 
me  and  I  into  thee?" 

He  let  the  purple  stem  swing  back,  and  with  his 
hands  about  his  knees  again  regarded  the  gibbet; 
then,  when  some  minutes  had  gone  by,  rose  and  pur- 
sued his  way.  Another  half-hour  and  he  came  to  a 
place  where  three  roads  met.  A  passing  shepherd 
boy  told  him  the  name  was  Heron's  Cross-Roads. 
It  was  a  lonely  place,  wold  and  stunted  wood,  and  in 
an  angle,  amid  heath  and  briar,  was  set  a  blackened 
stake.  Aderhold  went  across  to  it.  In  the  wood  was 
a  rudely  cut  name,  with  a  word  or  two  below;  the 
stake  was  set  through  the  heart  of  a  suicide.  Nettles 
were  about  it,  and  some  one  passing  had  thrown  an 
empty  and  broken  jug  of  earthenware.  It  lay  in 
shards.  Aderhold  knelt,  gathered  them  together, 
and  rising,  laid  the  heap  beneath  the  hedge. 

Back  upon  the  highway,  he  turned  his  face  again 
to  the  town.  It  was  a  long  way  to  the  Oak  Grange, 
and  Master  Hard  wick  was  concerned  if  the  house 
were  not  closed  and  fast  at  a  most  early  hour. 
Heron's  Cross-Roads.  As  Aderhold  walked  an  asso- 
ciation arose  with  the  name.  Heron  —  that  was  the 
name  of  the  old  man  who  owned  the  cottage  on  the 
edge  of  Hawthorn  Forest.  He  was  not  there  now; 
the  cottage  had  been  shut  up  and  tenantless  since 
early  summer.  He  and  his  daughter  were  gone,  Will 
had  told  him,  on  a  long  visit  to  the  old  man's  brother, 
the  earl's  huntsman  who  lived  in  the  castle  wood 
above  the  town.  No  one  knew  when  they  would  be 

76 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

back.  Most  of  their  furnishings  and  household  things 
had  been  loaned  here  or  there.  The  dairy  woman 
had  taken  their  cow,  some  one  else  the  beehives. 
Heron!  He  had  a  moment's  drifting  vision  of  the 
girl  gathering  faggots  in  the  forest.  It  passed  and 
the  present  day  and  landscape  took  its  place.  Soon 
he  came  again  to  the  rise  of  ground  and  the  gibbet 
so  stark  against  the  blue.  He  hesitated,  then 
paused,  resting  as  he  had  rested  before  upon  a  stone 
sunk  in  the  wayside  growth. 

A  horse  and  rider  emerged  with  suddenness  from  a 
sunken  lane  upon  his  left,  and  stood  still  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  road  —  a  fine  horse,  and  a  fine,  richly 
dressed  rider,  a  man  of  thirty-five  with  a  hawk  upon 
his  gauntleted  fist.  Turning  in  the  saddle  he  looked 
about  him,  and  espying  Aderhold  where  he  sat, 
called  to  him. 

"Hey,  friend!  Have  the  earl  and  his  train  passed 
this  way?" 

"I  have  not  seen  them,  sir." 

The  other  glanced  around  again,  then  beckoned 
with  an  easy  command.  Aderhold  rose  and  went  to 
him,  to  find  that  he  was  wanted  to  hold  the  hooded 
falcon  while  the  horseman  waited  for  the  hawking 
party  from  which  some  accident  had  separated  him. 
Aderhold  took  the  peregrine  from  the  other's  wrist 
and  stood  stroking  softly  with  one  finger  the  blue- 
black  plumage.  The  rider  rose  in  his  stirrups, 
swept  the  horizon  with  his  eye,  and  settled  back. 
"Dust  in  the  distance."  His  voice  went  with  his 

77 


THE  WITCH 

looks  —  he  seemed  a  rich  and  various  person,  who 
could  show  both  caprice  and  steadfastness.  Now  he 
glanced  downward  at  Aderhold.  "Ha,  I  had  not 
observed  you  before!  —  A  travelling  scholar?" 

"A  travelling  physician,  an  it  please  you,"  said 
Aderhold,  smoothing  the  bird  with  his  finger,  "bid- 
ing at  present  at  the  Oak  Grange,  beyond  Hawthorn 
Village." 

"You  take,"  said  the  horseman  with  a  glance  at 
the  gibbet,  "a  merry  signpost  to  rest  beneath!" 

"It  is  neither  merry  nor  dismal,"  said  Aderhold, 
"but  a  subject  for  thought.  That  which  swung 
there  swings  there  now  —  though  shrunken  and 
dark  and  answering  to  no  lust  of  the  eye.  But  that 
which  never  swung  there  swings  there  now  neither. 
I  trouble  it  not.  It  is  away  from  here." 

The  other  swung  himself  from  his  saddle.  "  I  had 
rather  philosophize  than  eat,  drink,  or  go  hawking 
—  and  philosophers  are  most  rare  in  this  region ! ' ' 
He  took  his  seat  upon  a  heap  of  stones,  while  his 
horse  beside  him  fell  to  grazing.  "Come,  sit  and  talk, 
travelling  scholar !  —  That  fellow  on  the  gibbet  — 
that  small,  cognized  part  of  him  that  was  hanged,  as 
you  would  say.  Being  hungry,  he  slew  a  deer  for  his 
own  use,  then  violently  resisted  and  wounded  those 
sent  to  his  hut  to  take  him,  and  finally,  in  court  he 
miserably  defamed  and  maligned  the  laws  of  the 
land  and  the  judge  in  his  chair.  So  there  he  swings 
for  an  example  to  stealers  of  deer  and  resisters  of 
constables,  to  say  naught  of  blasphemers  of  proce- 

78 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

dure  and  churls  to  magistrates!  .  .  .  What  is  your 
opinion,  travelling  scholar,  of  Authority?" 

"Nay,"  said  Aderhold,  "what  is  yours?" 

The  other  laughed.  "Mine,  Sir  Prudence?  — 
Well,  at  times  I  have  thought  this  and  at  times  that. 
Once  or  twice  a  head  like  Roger  Bacon's  has  spoken. 
*  The  swollen  stream  forgets  its  source,  and  the  over- 
weening son  turns  and  with  his  knotted  and  sinewy 
hands  chokes  his  mother  that  bore  him.'" 

"It  is  a  good  parable,"  said  Aderhold.  "I  trust 
that  your  worship,  being  obviously  of  those  in 
authority,  will  often  listen  to  that  brazen  head!" 

"Ah!"  answered  the  other.  "I  am  of  that  camp 
and  not  of  it.  My  brazen  head  will  yet  get  me  into 
trouble ! "  He  sat  regarding  the  mound  opposite,  the 
tall  upright  and  arm,  the  creaking  chain,  and  the 
shapeless  thing,  now  small,  for  most  of  the  bones 
had  fallen,  which  swung  and  dangled.  "And, 
friend,  what  do  you  think  of  this  matter  of  the 
Golden  Age,  man's  perfection,  Paradise,  the  friend- 
ship of  angels  and  all  wisdom  and  happiness  lying, 
in  the  history  of  this  orb,  behind  us?" 

"  If  it  were  so,"  said  Aderhold,  "then  were  it  well 
to  walk  backwards." 

"So  saith  my  brazen  head!  —  Hark!" 

It  was  a  horn  winding  at  no  great  distance.  There 
came  a  sound  of  approaching  horsemen,  of  voices 
and  laughter.  The  waiting  cavalier  rose  to  his  feet, 
caught  his  horse  by  the  bridle  and  mounted.  Ader- 
hold gave  him  back  the  falcon.  The  earl  and  his 

79 


THE  WITCH 

train,  a  dozen  in  all,  gentlemen,  falconers,  and 
grooms,  coming  across  the  fields,  leaped  the  hedge 
and  crowded  into  the  road,  gathering  into  their 
number  the  rider  with  the  hawk.  Aderhold  heard 
him  named  as  ''Sir  Richard."  He  waved  his  hand 
to  the  physician  —  all  rode  away  with  a  flash  of 
colour  and  a  blare  of  sound.  A  few  moments,  and 
there  was  only  the  bare  highway,  the  little  rise  of 
ground,  and  the  gibbet  with  its  outstretched  arm 
against  the  blue  and  serene  sky. 

Aderhold,  keeping  on  to  the  town,  passed  along 
its  bustling  high  street,  and  down  the  steep  slope, 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  great  church  and  the 
castle  in  its  woods  above,  to  the  river  and  its  many- 
arched,  ancient  bridge.  Before  him  lay  the  fair 
country  between  the  town  and  Hawthorn  village. 
He  travelled  through  it  in  the  late,  golden  light,  and 
at  sunset  came  into  Hawthorn.  Children  were  play- 
ing and  calling  in  the  one  street  and  several  lanes, 
on  the  green,  by  the  pond,  and  the  village  stocks. 
The  alehouse  had  its  custom,  but,  as  he  presently 
saw,  most  of  the  inhabitants  of  Hawthorn  were 
gathered  in  a  buzzing  cluster  before  the  church.  A 
post,  riding  from  London  north,  had  passed  through 
the  village  and  left  behind  a  dole  of  news.  Among 
his  items,  principal  to  Hawthorn  was  this:  The 
King,  they  say,  will  presently  of  his  good  pleasure, 
lighten  the  pains  and  penalties  now  imposed  upon 
Papists. 

Aderhold,  touching  the  fringe  of  the  crowd, 

80 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  HAWK 

caught  a  glimpse  of  Master  Clement,  standing  upon 
the  church  steps,  haranguing.  He  caught  the  words, 
"The  Scarlet  Woman  .  .  .  Babylon  .  .  .  Lighten? 
Rather  double  and  treble  and  quadruple  — "  Near 
the  minister  he  saw  Harry  Carthew.  He  did  not 
pause ;  he  went  by  like  a  moth  in  the  dusk.  As  the 
moon  rose  he  came  to  the  stream  before  the  Grange, 
crossed  it  by  the  footbridge,  and  went  on  beneath 
the  fairy  oak  to  the  house  where  one  candle  shone 
from  a  single  window.  In  the  middle  of  the  night 
he  was  wakened  by  some  one  calling  and  throwing 
pebbles  against  his  casement.  The  miller,  a  mile 
down  the  stream,  was  ill  and  groaning  for  the  leech. 


CHAPTER  VII 

JOAN 

IT  was  May  three  years  since  Joan  had  smelled  the 
apple  tree  in  blossom  by  the  well,  or  had  marked 
the  heartsease  amid  the  grass.  She  drew  her  bucket 
of  water,  flashing,  dripping,  and  cold,  rested  it  upon 
the  well-stone,  and  regarded  with  grey  eyes  the 
cottage  and  its  handbreadth  of  garden. 

She  sighed.  There  had  been  much  of  advantage 
in  that  long  sojourn  with  her  uncle  the  huntsman,  in 
his  better  house  than  this,  a  mile  in  the  castle  wood, 
above  the  town  so  much  greater  than  Hawthorn 
Village!  There  had  been  the  town  to  walk  to,  the 
bright  things  to  see,  the  bustle  in  the  streets,  the 
music  in  the  church,  the  occasional  processions  and 
pageants,  the  fairs  and  feast  days.  For  the  castle 
itself,  the  great  family  was  not  often  there,  but 
the  housekeeper  had  been  friendly  to  her,  and  she 
had  been  let  to  roam  as  she  pleased  through  the 
place,  half -mediaeval  stronghold,  half  new  walls  and 
chambers  echoing  Tudor  luxury.  Four  times  in  the 
three  years  the  family  had  been  in  residence,  and 
then  there  were  other  things  to  watch,  though  at  a 
most  respectful  distance !  .  .  .  Once  there  had  been 
a  masque  in  the  park,  and,  as  many  figures  were 
needed,  there  had  come  an  order  from  the  countess. 

82 


JOAN 

A  page  had  brought  it,  and  had  explained  in  detail, 
what  was  wanted.  There  was  to  be  a  whole  pageant 
of  scenes  from  the  mythology.  She  was  to  enact  a 
virgin  who  had  been  very  swift  of  foot  —  she  was  to 
run  swiftly  from  north  to  south  across  the  great 
pleasaunce  —  a  young  gentleman,  who  would  be 
running  likewise,  would  throw^  before  her,  one  after 
the  other,  three  yellow  apples.  She  would  stoop  and 
pick  them  up  while  he  ran  on.  She  nodded.  "Yes,  I 
know.  Atalanta."  The  page,  who  was  younger  than 
herself  but  comely  and  court-bred,  evinced  surprise. 
11  Wherever,  Phyllis,  didst  get  that  learning?"  She 
said  that  her  father  was  clerkly  and  talked  to  her  of 
things  in  books.  .  .  .  The  masque!  It  was  a  world 
to  remember,  the  masque !  How  beautiful  all  things 
had  been,  and  everybody  —  and  kind !  But  there 
had  never  been  but  the  one  masque,  and  soon  the 
family  had  gone  away. 

She  was  thinking,  as  she  stood  by  the  well,  that 
now  perhaps  they  would  come  back  this  May  and 
she  would  not  be  there.  She  drew  a  long  sigh,  and 
missed  the  castle,  the  park  and  the  wood,  the  town 
and  the  sight  of  the  river  and  the  bridge,  over  which 
something  was  always  passing.  She  missed,  too,  her 
uncle  the  huntsman,  who  had  died;  missed  his 
larger  house  and  the  greater  coming  and  going; 
missed  her  room,  where,  standing  at  her  window,  she 
saw  the  moon  rise  behind  the  Black  Tower.  And 
now  her  uncle  was  dead  who  had  been  a  single  man, 
and  who  had  kept  them  from  month  to  month  and 

83 


THE  WITCH 

year  to  year  with  his  loud  protest  each  time  they 
talked  of  lifting  a  burden  and  going  back  to  Haw- 
thorn Forest.  .  .  .  But  he  was  dead,  and  his  house 
passed  to  the  new  huntsman.  Joan  and  her  father 
loaded  their  clothes  and  such  matters  upon  a  cart, 
mounted  it  themselves,  and  with  some  farewells  to 
castle  neighbours  took  the  road  to  their  own  small 
cottage,  miles  away. 

She  sighed,  but  then,  with  her  eyes  upon  the 
heartsease,  determined  to  make  the  best  of  it.  It 
was  not  as  though  she  did  not  love  the  cottage  and 
the  garden,  where  presently  all  the  flowers  would 
bloom  again,  and  Hawthorn  Forest,  where  she  had 
wandered  freely  from  childhood.  She  did  love  them, 
she  had  a  warm  love  for  them ;  and  sometimes  at  her 
uncle's  she  had  pleased  herself  with  being  pensive 
and  missing  them  sadly.  She  loved  her  father,  too ; 
the  old  clerk  and  she  were  good  friends,  so  good 
friends,  in  an  age  of  parental  severity  and  filial  awe, 
as  to  have  scandalized  the  housekeeper  at  the 
castle.  Moreover,  though  they  were  poor  and  had 
always  lived  so  retired,  and  though  the  country 
hereabouts  afforded  few  neighbours,  and  though  she 
had  never  known  many  people  in  the  village,  having 
been  but  a  young  maid  when  she  went  away,  there 
were  those  whom  she  remembered,  and  she  looked 
forward  to  a  renewal  of  acquaintance.  And  the  day 
was  very  rich  and  fair,  and  a  robin  singing,  and 
waves  of  fragrance  blowing  from  the  fruit  trees,  and 
she  was  young  and  strong  and  innately  joyous.  She 

84 


JOAN 

broke  a  branch  of  apple  blossom  and  stuck  it  into 
the  well  water;  she  stooped  and  plucked  a  knot  of 
heartsease  and  fastened  it  at  her  bodice  throat. 
Then  she  lifted  the  bucket  to  her  head,  and  moved 
with  it,  tall  and  steady,  over  the  worn  stones  of  the 
path  to  the  cottage  door. 

Arrived  within,  she  fell  to  her  baking,  in  a  clean 
kitchen  with  doors  and  windows  wide.  She  was  a 
notable  cook,  her  mother  having  trained  her  before 
she  died.  Moreover,  what  she  touched  she  touched 
like  an  artist.  She  made  no  useless  steps  or  move- 
ments, she  neither  dallied  nor  hurried ;  all  went  with 
a  fine  assurance,  an  easy  "Long  ago  I  knew  how  — 
but  if  you  ask  me  how  I  know  — ! "  She  sang  as  she 
worked,  a  brave  young  carolling  of  Allan- a-Dale  and 
John-a-Green  and  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian. 

The  good  odour  of  the  bread  arose  and  floated  out 
to  mingle  with  the  may  time  of  the  little  garden. 
Old  Roger  Heron,  short,  ruddy,  and  hale  for  all  he 
was  so  clerkly,  came  in  from  his  spading.  "That 
smells  finely!"  he  said.  He  dipped  a  cup  into  the 
well  water  and  drank. 

"Aye,  and  it  is  going  to  taste  finely!"  answered 
Joan. 

"'I  have  heard  talk  of  bold  Robin  Hood, 

And  of  brave  Little  John, 
Of  Friar  Tuck  and  Will  Scarlet, 
Locksley  and  Maid  Marian  — '" 

Her  father  put  down  the  cup,  moved  to  the  settle, 
and  sitting  deliberately  down,  began  with  delibera- 

85 


THE  WITCH 

tion  one  of  his  talks  of  a  thinking  man.  "  Look  you, 
Joan!  Goodman  Cole  and  I  have  been  discoursing. 
We  were  talking  of  religion." 

"  Aye?  "  said  Joan.  She  spread  a  white  cloth  upon 
the  table  and  set  in  the  midst  a  bow-pot  of  cherry 
bloom.  " Religion.  Well?" 

"You  should  say  the  word  with  a  heavier  tone," 
said  old  Roger.  " '  Religion.'  —  Things  are  n't  here 
as  they  were  at  your  uncle's  —  rest  his  soul !  Mod- 
esty in  religion  and  a  decent  mirth  seemed  right 
enough,  seeing  that  the  earl  was  minded  that  way 
and  on  the  whole  the  town  as  well.  So  the  old  games 
and  songs  and  ways  went  somehow  on  —  though 
everything  was  stiffening,  even  there,  and  not  like 
it  was  when  I  was  young  and  the  learned  were  talk- 
ing of  the  Greeks.  But  times  have  changed!  It 
seems  the  Lord  wishes  gloom,  or  the  minister  says  he 
does.  If  it  was  begun  to  be  felt  in  the  castle  and  the 
town,  and  it  was,  —  your  uncle  and  I  often  talked 
about  it,  —  it  shows  ten  times  more  here.  Aye,  it 
showed  three  years  ago,  but  Goodman  Cole  says  it 
grows  day  by  day,  and  that  now  if  you  appear  not 
with  a  holy  melancholy  you  are  little  else  than  a 
lost  soul!" 

"'Holy  melancholy'  and  'lost  souls,'"  said  Joan. 
"I  know  not  why  it  is  that  those  words  together 
sound  to  me  so  foolish.  —  Doth  it  help  anything 
when  I  am  sad? 

"  '—  Friar  Tuck  and  Will  Scarlet, 

Locksley  and  Maid  Marian  — '" 
86 


JOAN 

"Stop,  child!"  said  old  Roger.  "I'm  in  earnest 
and  so  must  you  be.  Look  you,  Joan!  you  're  all  I  've 
got,  and  folk  will  be  fanciful  about  all  they've 
got  and  try  to  guard  it  all  around.  And  it  came 
into  my  head  while  Goodman  Cole  was  talking  — 
and  it  was  he  who  put  it  there,  talking  of  your 
looks,  and  saying  that  you  had  better  go  mim-mouth 
to  church,  and  that  you  had  a  strange  way  of  looking 
straight  at  a  body  when  you  spoke,  which  did  n't 
become  a  woman,  who  ought  always  to  go  with  a 
downcast  look  —  it  came  into  my  head,  I  say,  that 
we're  poor  and  without  any  protector  and  fairly 
strange  here  now,  and  how  evil  tongues  are  as  com- 
mon as  grass,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  I  'd  give  you 
a  good  cautioning  — " 

"  Mim-mouth  and  downcast  look  and  go  to  heaven 
so!"  said  Joan.  "I  wonder  what  that  heaven's 
like!" 

"You  mustn't  talk  that  way,"  said  old  Heron. 
"  No,  I  know,  you  don't  do  so  when  others  are  by,  but 
you'll  forget  sometime.  Mistress  Borrow  at  the 
castle  said  that  you  were  a  very  pagan,  though  an 
innocent  one!  That  came  into  my  head,  too,  while 
he  talked.  And  another  thing  came  that  sounds 
fanciful  —  but  a  myriad  of  women  and  girls  have 
found  it  no  fancy!  Listen  to  me,  Joan.  Since 
we  got  our  new  King,  and  since  the  land  has  grown 
so  zealous  and  finds  Satan  at  any  neighbour's  hearth, 
there's  been  a  growing  ferreting  out  and  hanging 
of  witches.  In  Scotland  it's  a  fever  and  a  running 

87 


THE  WITCH 

fire  and  we  're  not  as  far  as  the  antipodes  from  Scot- 
land. Now  I  'm  not  denying  that  there  are  witches; 
the  Bible  says  there  are,  and  so,  of  course,  there 
must  be.  But  it  knocks  at  my  head  that  many  a 
silly  old  woman  and  many  a  young  maid  has  been 
called  a  witch  that  was  none!  And  it  came  to  me 
that  Hawthorn 's  not  the  castle  and  the  castle  wood, 
and  that  if  Mistress  Borrow  called  you  pagan  and 
said  that  you  stepped  and  spoke  too  freely  for  a 
woman,  it's  like  that  some  here  might  take  it  on 
themselves  to  think  pure  ill  — " 

"  I  see  not  how  they  could,"  said  Joan.  "There  is 
no  ill  to  think.  —  Do  you  mean  that  I  am  not  to 
sing  about  Robin  Hood  and  Maid  Marian?" 

"  I  like  to  hear  you,"  said  old  Roger;  "but  are  n't 
there  godly  hymns?  Use  your  own  good  sense,  my 
girl." 

Joan  at  the  window  looked  out  upon  the  flowering 
trees  and  the  springing  grass  and  robin  redbreast 
carolling  in  the  pear  tree.  When  she  turned  her  eyes 
were  misty.  "  I  like  to  sing  what  I  feel  like  singing. 
If  it  chances  to  be  a  hymn,  well  and  good  —  but  a 
forced  hymn,  meseems,  is  a  fearful  thing!  I  like  to 
go  free,  and  I  like  not  a  mim-mouth  and  a  downward 
look.  But  I  like  not  to  bring  trouble  on  you,  and  I 
do  not  like  either  to  have  them  set  upon  me  for 
ungodliness,  nor  to  have  some  fool  cry  upon  me  for 
a  witch!  So  I'll  be  careful.  I  promise  you.  She  laid 
the  trenchers  upon  the  table  and  turned  out  from  its 
pan  a  warm  and  fragrant  loaf.  "I'll  be  careful  — 

88 


JOAN 

oh,  careful !  —  And  now  when  are  we  going  to  get 
our  beehives  from  the  forester's  wife?" 

That  afternoon  she  took  her  distaff  and  sat  in  the 
doorway  and  span.  The  cottage  stood  some  dis- 
tance from  Hawthorn  Forest  road,  but  there  was  a 
narrow  greened-over  path  that  wound  between. 
The  robin  sang  lustily ;  daffodils,  edging  the  walk  to 
the  gate,  were  opening  their  golden  cups.  Old 
Heron  had  gone  a  mile  to  engage  Hugh  the  thatcher 
to  come  to-morrow  to  mend  the  roof.  Joan  span  and 
span  and  thought  of  the  castle  and  the  masque. 

An  hour  passed.  The  gate-latch  clicked  and  she 
looked  up.  An  old  woman,  much  bent  and  helping 
herself  with  a  knobby  stick,  was  coming  toward 
her  between  the  rows  of  daffodils.  When  she  reached 
the  doorstone  Joan  saw  how  wrinkled  and  drear  were 
her  face  and  form.  "Good-day,"  she  said  in  a 
quavering  voice. 

"Good-day,"  answered  Joan. 

"Good-day,"  said  the  old  woman  again.  "You 
don't  remember  me,  but  I  remember  you,  my  pretty 
maid!  I  mind  you  running  about  in  the  woods, 
playing  as  it  were  with  your  shadow,  with  your  hair 
braided  down!  Now  you  wear  it  under  a  cap  as  is 
proper.  I  'm  Mother  Spuraway,  who  lives  beyond 
the  mill-race." 

"  I  remember  now,"  said  Joan.  "  I  had  forgotten. 
Will  you  sit  down?" 

She  brought  a  stool  and  set  it  for  her  visitor.  The 
other  lowered  herself  stiffly.  '"Oh,  my  old  bones! 

89 


THE  WITCH 

I  '11  sit  for  a  minute,  sweetheart,  but  what  I  wanted 
to  ask  you — "  She  took  Joan  by  the  apron  and 
held  her  with  shaking  fingers.  "  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
if  you  would  n't  be  Christian  enough  to  spare  me  a 
measure  of  meal?  I  '11  swear  by  the  church  door  and 
the  book  of  prayer  that  I  have  n't  had  bite  nor  sup 
since  this  time  yesterday!'*  She  fell  to  whimpering. 

Joan  stood,  considering  her  with  grey  eyes.  "Yes, 
I'll  give  you  some  meal.  But  what!  They  used  to 
say  that  you  were  well-to-do." 

' l  Aye,  aye ! ' '  said  Mother  Spuraway .  ' '  They  said 
sooth.  I  did  n't  lack  baked  nor  brewed,  no,  nor 
silver  sixpences !  —  for,  look  you,  I  knew  all  the  good 
herbs.  But  alack,  alack!  times  are  changed  with 
me.  .  .  .  I'm  hungry,  I 'm  hungry,  and  my  gown 's 
ragged  that  once  was  good  and  fine,  and  my  shoes 
are  not  fit  to  go  to  church  in.  Woe 's  me  —  woe 's 
me  —  woe 's  me ! ' ' 

Joan  went  indoors  and  returned  with  a  piece  of 
bread  and  a  cup  of  milk.  Mother  Spuraway  seized 
them  and  ate  and  drank  with  feeble  avidity.  "  Good 
maid  —  a  good  maid!  " 

"Why  do  they  come  to  you  no  more?"  asked 
Joan. 

Mother  Spuraway  put  down  the  empty  cup. 
"Partly,  there's  a  leech  come  to  these  parts  has 
stolen  my  trade.  I  '11  not  say  he  does  n't  know  the 
herbs,  too,  but  I  knew  them  as  well  as  he,  and  I  knew 
them  first!  But  mostly,  oh,  dear  heart!  because 
there's  been  raised  a  hue  and  cry  that  I  did  n't  cure 

90 


JOAN 

with  innocence  —  as  though  I  did  n't  cure  as  inno- 
cently as  him!  But  I 'mold  —  I'm  old!  .  .  .  I  never 
had  aught  to  do  even  with  white  magic.  There 
was  healing  in  the  herbs  and  that  and  good  sense 
was  enough.  But  I  'm  old  —  old,  and  they  bear 
hard  upon  women.  .  .  .  And  I  hear  that  there's  a 
buzz  of  talk  and  I  may  be  taken  up.  I  know  Mas- 
ter Clement's  been  against  me  since  ever  he  came 
to  the  parish  — "  She  began  to  weep,  painful  slow 
tears  of  age. 

Joan  looked  at  her  with  a  knitted  brow.  "  There, 
mother,  there,  mother!  I  would  not  let  them  that 
hurt  me  make  me  weep.  See!  I'll  give  you  your 
meal,  and  it  will  all  come  straight."  She  brought 
her  a  full  measure,  and  a  great  share  of  her  baking 
of  bread  besides. 

Mother  Spuraway  blessed  her  for  a  pitiful  maid, 
got  painfully  to  her  feet,  and  said  she  would  be  go- 
ing. "You've  good  herbs  in  your  garden,  but  I 
see  no  rue.  If  I  be  straying  this  way  again  I  '11  bring 
you  a  bit  for  planting." 

She  went  away,  her  stick  supporting  her,  her  eyes 
still  searching  the  little  leaves  and  low  plants  on  each 
side  of  the  garden  path  and  the  faint,  winding  track 
between  gate  and  forest  road.  Joan,  in  the  door- 
way, let  her  distaff  fall  and  sat  pondering,  her  elbow 
on  her  knee,  her  chin  in  her  hand,  and  her  grey  eyes 
upon  the  fruit  trees.  "  Shall  I  tell  father  —  or  shall 
I  not  tell  father?  If  I  tell  him,  he  will  say  she  must 
not  come  again.  .  .  .  And  how  am  I  going  to  help 


THE  WITCH 

her  coming  again?"  In  the  end,  she  determined  to 
tell  her  father,  but  to  represent  to  him  how  hard  it 
was  going  to  be  —  and  how  it  seemed  to  her  poor- 
spirited,  loveless,  and  mean  —  And  as  she  got  this 
far,  she  saw  another  visitor  coming. 

She  knew  this  visitor,  and  springing  up,  went  to 
the  gate  to  greet  her.  Before  she  left  this  country- 
side she  had  often,  of  Sundays  in  Hawthorn  Church, 
sat  beside  Alison  Inch,  the  sempstress's  daughter. 
And  after  she  went  to  the  castle  Alison  had  twice 
been  with  her  mother  to  the  town,  and  they  had 
climbed  the  hill  to  the  castle  wood  and  the  hunts- 
man's house  to  see  their  old  neighbours,  though, 
indeed,  they  had  not  been  such  near  neighbours. 
Alison  was  older  than  she,  but  at  the  castle  hers  had 
been  the  advantage,  she  being  at  home  with  a  number 
of  goodly  things,  and  Alison  showing  herself  some- 
what shy  and  deferential.  But  now  the  castle  and 
the  park  and  her  uncle's  house  were  a  dream,  and 
Joan  was  back  in  Heron's  cottage  that  was  not  on 
the  whole  so  good  as  the  Inches'  nor  so  near  the  vil- 
lage. Moreover,  she  was  now  almost  a  stranger,  and 
knowledge  and  familiarity  with  all  matters  were  on 
Alison's  side,  to  say  nothing  of  her  year  or  two 
longer  in  the  world.  Alison  felt  her  advantages,  and 
was  not  averse  to  the  other's  recognition  of  them. 
Joan  and  she  kissed,  then  moved  somewhat  saunter- 
ingly  up  the  path  to  the  door  stone. 

"Mother  and  I  went  to  take  her  new  smocks  to 
Madam  Carthew,  and  then  when  we  came  back  it 

92 


JOAN 

was  so  fine,  and  mother  said  that  she  would  go  to  see 
Margery  Herd,  and  if  I  chose  I  might  walk  on  here. 
—  The  place  looks,'*  said  Alison,  "as  though  you 
had  never  gone  away." 

"Nay,  there  are  things  yet  to  do,"  said  Joan, 
"and  that  though  we've  been  here  well-nigh  a 
month.  You  would  not  think  how  hard  it  is  to  get 
back  the  gear  we  left  with  folk!  They  had  the  use 
until  we  came  back,  and  they  knew  that  we  would 
come  back  —  but  now  you  might  think  that  we 
were  asking  their  things  instead  of  our  own !  Three 
women  have  looked  as  black  at  me!  We  got  our 
churn  but  yesterday,  and  the  forester's  wife  still 
has  our  beehives.  A  dozen  of  her  own,  and  when  we 
ask  for  our  poor  three  back  again,  you  might  sup- 
pose we  'd  offered  to  steal  the  thatch  from  over  her 
head!" 

They  sat  down,  facing  each  other,  on  the  sun- 
flecked  doors  tone. 

Alison  looked  about  her.  " I've  never  seen  daffo- 
dillies bloom  like  these!  —  Joan,  I  heard  a  story  on 
thee  the  other  day." 

"What  story?" 

"They  said  thou  hadst  a  lover  in  the  town  —  a 
vintner." 

"I  never  had  a  lover,  town  or  country." 

Alison  made  round  eyes.  "What!  no  one  ever 
asked  you  to  wed  ? ' ' 

"I  said  not  that.  I  said  that  I  never  had  a 
lover." 

93 


THE  WITCH 

Alison  fell  to  plaiting  her  apron,  her  head  on  one 
side.  "  Mother  says  that  your  father's  that  sunk  in 
notions  of  the  learned  that  he'd  never  think  of  it, 
but  she  wonders  that  your  uncle  did  n't  see  fit  to 
find  you  a  husband." 

"  Does  she?  Well,  one  wonders  over  one  thing  and 
one  over  another." 

"There  are  very  few  bachelors  and  marriageable 
men  hereabouts,"  said  Alison,  "  but  I  suppose  you'll 
get  that  one  of  them  you  set  your  cap  for." 

"And  why  do  you  suppose  that?" 

Alison,  her  head  still  on  one  side,  looked  aslant  at 
the  returned  friend.  "Oh,  men  are  all  for  strange 
and  new!  Your  tallness,  now,  that  most  people 
count  a  fault,  and  that  colour  hair  and  that  colour 
eyes  .  .  .  Yes,  you'll  get  the  one  you  want." 

"And  if  I  want  none?" 

"Oh!"  said  Alison,  and  laughed  somewhat  shrilly. 
"Have  you  got  an  elfin  man  for  your  true-love? 
You'll  not  cheat  me  else  with  your  'And  if  I  want 
none?'" 

Joan  twirled  her  distaff.  "  I  do  not  wish  to  cheat 
you.  —  And  you  went  with  the  smocks  to  Madam 
Carthew's?" 

Alison  bent,  slipped  off  her  shoe,  and  shook  out  of 
it  a  minute  pebble.  "And  what  do  you  mean  by 
that?" 

"Mean?  I  mean  naught,"  said  Joan.  "I  meant 
that  she  was  a  great  lady,  and  the  squire's  house 
must  be  fine  to  see.  What  didst  think  I  meant?" 

94 


JOAN 

But  Alison  would  not  divulge.  All  that  came  was, 
"I  noted  you  last  Sunday,  how  you  looked  aside, 
during  the  singing,  at  the  gentry  in  the  squire's  pew! 
But  they  are  godly  people,  and  if  you  think  that  they 
looked  aside  — " 

"  In  God's  name!"  said  Joan,  "what  is  the  matter 
with  the  wench?" 

But  before  she  could  find  that  out,  here  came  one 
back  —  Mother  Spuraway,  to  wit.  She  came  hob- 
bling up  the  green  path  to  the  gate,  and  stood  beck- 
oning. Joan  rose  and  went  to  her.  Mother  Spur- 
away  held  in  her  hand  a  green  herb  taken  up  by  the 
root  with  earth  clinging  to  it. 

"  It  is  rue,  dearie,"  she  said.  "There  was  a  clump 
of  it  left  by  the  burned  cot  a  little  way  off.  So  I  dug 
it  up  for  you  — •" 

Joan  took  it.   "Thank  you.   I'll  plant  it  now." 

"You've  got  company,"  said  Mother  Spura- 
way. " I'll  not  come  in.  But  I  wanted  to  do  some- 
what for  you  — " 

She  turned  and  hobbled  off,  her  wavering  old 
figure  wavering  away  upon  the  twisting  path. 

Joan  went  back  to  the  doorstone  with  the  rue  in 
her  hand. 

"Was  n't  that  Mother  Spuraway?"  asked  Ali- 
son. "I  would  n't  be  seen  talking  to  her.  She's  a 
witch." 

"She's  no  .such  thing,"  said  Joan.  "She's  only  a 
wretched,  poor  old  woman.  Now,  what  did  you 
mean  about  Sunday  and  church?" 

95 


THE  WITCH 

But  her  father  came  round  the  corner  of  the  cot- 
tage, bringing  with  him  Hugh  the  thatcher  to  have  a 
look  at  the  torn  roof.  Alison  rose;  the  sun  was  get- 
ting low  and  she  must  be  going.  She  went,  and 
Joan,  at  that  time,  did  not  find  out  what  she  had 
meant. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

FOUR  days  later  she  went  to  walk  in  Hawthorn 
Forest.  It  was  a  golden  afternoon,  and  she  had  has- 
tened her  work  and  got  it  out  of  hand.  The  roof  was 
mended,  the  beehives  were  back,  the  cottage  taking 
on  an  air  of  having  been  lived  in  all  this  while.  Old 
Heron  earned  by  scrivener's  work.  It  was  not  much 
that  he  found  to  do,  but  it  gave  them  plain  fare  and 
plain  clothes  to  wear.  Joan,  too,  from  time  to  time 
sold  to  a  merchant  flax  that  she  had  spun.  .  .  .  She 
had  gone  no  way  into  the  forest  since  their  return, 
there  had  been  each  day  so  much  to  do !  But  to-day 
an  image  had  haunted  her  of  how  the  forest  used  to 
look  in  its  garb  of  May. 

She  let  the  gate-latch  fall  behind  her  and  went  out 
in  the  grey-green  gown  that  she  had  spun  and  dyed 
herself.  She  wore  a  small  cap  of  linen  and  a  linen 
kerchief.  Sunday  she  would  wear  a  bluish  gown,  and 
a  cap  and  kerchief  of  lawn.  She  was  tall  and  light 
upon  her  feet,  grey-eyed  and  well-featured,  with  hair 
more  gold  than  brown,  with  a  warm,  sun-flushed, 
smooth,  fine-textured  skin,  and  a  good  mouth  and 
chin  and  throat.  The  sun  was  three  hours  high ;  she 
meant  to  have  a  long  and  beautiful  time. 

So  close  to  the  forest  edge  was  the  cottage  that 

97 


THE  WITCH 

almost  immediately  great  trees  were  about  her, 
leaf -mould  and  flowerets  beneath  her  feet.  The  forest 
was  hardly  yet  in  full  leaf.  There  spread  about  her 
a  divine  pale  emerald  fretwork,  and  gold  light  in 
lances  and  arrows,  and  closing  the  vistas  purple  light 
in  gauzy  sheets  and  curtains.  The  boles  of  the 
trees  were  marvels,  the  great  spreading  branches 
kings'  wonders,  every  slight  fern  illustrious.  The 
stir  and  song  of  hidden  birds,  the  scurrying  of  a  hare, 
a  glimpse  down  a  beechen  aisle  of  a  doe  and  fawn, 
filled  a  cup  of  delight.  She  was  Greek  to  it  all,  a 
country  girl  of  Attica.  Merely  to  live  was  good, 
merely  to  vibrate  and  quiver  to  the  myriad  straying 
fingers  of  life,  merely  to  be,  and  ever  more  to  be,  with 
a  fresh  intensity! 

On  she  wandered  with  a  light  step  and  heart,  now 
by  some  handbreadth  of  sward,  now  in  a  maze  of 
trees.  Now  and  then  she  stood  still,  gazing  and 
listening  and  smelling  the  good  earth.  Once  or  twice 
she  rested  upon  some  protruding  root  or  fallen  log, 
nursed  her  knees  and  marked  the  minute  life  about 
her. 

Happy,  happy,  happy!  with  the  blood  coursing 
warmly  and  sanely  through  her  veins,  with  her  sen- 
ses keen  at  the  intake  and  her  brain  good  at  com- 
bining. ...  Open  places,  small  clearings,  existed  here 
and  there  in  the  forest  with,  at  great  intervals,  some 
hut  or  poor  cottage.  So  it  was  that  she  soon  came 
in  sight  of  the  burned  cot  and  trodden  bit  of  garden 
whence  Mother  Spuraway  had  plucked  the  rue. 

98 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

The  place  lay  curiously,  half  in  gold  light,  half  in 
deep  shadow.  The  stone  chimney  was  standing,  to- 
gether with  some  portion  of  charred  rafter.  There 
were  currant  and  gooseberry  bushes,  and  a  plum 
tree,  but  the  bit  of  garden -hedge  was  broken  down 
and  all  things  had  run  to  was.te.  Joan,  drawing  near, 
heard  children's  voices,  and  presently,  touching  the 
cleared  space,  came  into  view  of  six  or  seven  village 
boys,  who,  roaming  at  will  or  sent  on  some  errand 
through  the  wood,  had  found  here  a  resting-stage 
and  fascination.  They  were  after  something  —  she 
thought  a  bird's  nest  —  in  a  crotch  of  the  plum  tree 
that  brushed  the  blackened  chimney.  She  stood  and 
watched  for  a  moment,  then  called  to  them.  "Leave 
that  poor  bird  alone!"  Two  or  three,  turning, 
laughed  and  jeered,  and  one  small  savage  at  the  foot 
of  the  tree  threw  a  stone.  Joan  was  angry,  but  she 
could  not  help  the  bird  —  they  probably  had  nest 
and  eggs  by  now.  She  went  on,  past  the  burned  cot, 
and  was  presently  in  the  greenwood  again. 

After  a  time  she  found  herself  upon  the  Oak 
Grange  road,  running  across  this- corner  of  the  forest. 
She  had  not  meant  to  go  this  way,  but  a  memory 
came  to  her  of  a  stream  flowing  over  pebbles,  of  an 
old  house  and  an  oak  tree  around  which  they  used  to 
say  the  fairies  danced  at  night.  She  walked  on  upon 
the  narrow  and  grass-grown  road,  and  after  a  little 
time  it  led  her  out  of  the  wood  and  to  the  edge  of  the 
pebbly  stream.  There  was  a  footbridge  thrown 
across,  but  she  did  not  mean  to  go  over  to  the  other 

99 


THE  WITCH 

bank.  She  had  no  acquaintance  at  the  Grange.  She 
had  heard  Goodman  Cole  say  that  the  old  miser, 
Master  Hard  wick,  was  still  alive,  but  was  rarely 
seen  without  the  house.  Will  the  smith's  son  had 
once  worked  at  the  Grange,  but  she  did  not  know  if 
he  were  there  yet.  .  .  .  She  sat  down  on  a  stone  at 
this  end  of  the  bridge,  and  regarded  now  the  old 
ruinous  house  sunk  in  ivy,  with  the  long  grass  and 
ragged  shrubs  before  it,  and  now  the  giant  oak  where 
the  fairies  danced,  and  now  the  bright  blue  sky 
behind  with  floating  clouds,  and  now  the  shallow, 
narrow  river  with  its  pebbly  shore,  and  now  she 
regarded  all  in  one.  Ripple,  ripple!  sang  the  water. 

She  sat  there  some  time,  but  at  last,  with  a  long 
breath,  she  stood  up,  looked  a  moment  longer,  then 
turned  and,  reentering  the  wood,  faced  homeward. 
She  had  strolled  and  sauntered  and  spent  her  time. 
Now  the  sun  was  getting  low  in  the  west.  Presently 
she  left  the  road  and  took  the  forest  track  that 
would  bring  her  again  by  the  burned  cot. 

Through  the  thinning  wood  she  saw  the  place 
before  her,  in  shadow  now,  except  that  the  top  of 
the  plum  tree  was  gold.  She  thought  that  she  still 
heard  the  boys'  voices.  Then,  just  at  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  she  came  suddenly  face  to  face  with  a  man. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  plainly  dressed  in  some  dark 
stuff.  Stopping  as  he  did  when  he  saw  her,  stepping 
aside  a  pace  to  give  her  room,  he  chanced  to  come 
into  a  ray  of  the  last  slant  sunlight.  It  showed  his 
face,  a  lined,  rather  strange,  not  unpleasing  face. 

100 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

He  was  carrying  in  the  hollow  of  his  arm  a  grey  and 
white  cat.  The  creature  lay  stretched  out,  half-dead, 
blood  upon  its  fur. 

"Ah,"  said  Joan,  "it  was  that  they  were  tor- 
menting!" She  stood  still.  She  was  sympathetic 
with  animals;  they  were  like  everything  else,  living 
and  loving  to  live.  She  thought  they  were  very  like 
human  beings. 

"Aye,"  said  the  man.  "But  it  can  recover.  It  is 
starved  as  well."  He  looked  at  this  chance- met 
young  woman.  "  I  meant  to  carry  it  back  to  Doro- 
thy at  the  Grange,"  he  said.  "  But  I  am  on  my  way 
to  visit  a  sick  man  and  it  will  be  much  out  of  my 
road.  Do  you  live  anywhere  near?"  He  knit  his 
brows  a  little.  He  thought  that  by  now  he  knew  all 
faces  for  a  long  way  around,  but  he  did  not  know  her 
face. 

"Aye,"  said  Joan.  "  I  live  at  Heron's  cottage.  — 
If  you  wish  me  to,  I'll  take  her  and  give  her  milk  to 
drink  and  let  her  lie  by  the  hearth  for  a  while." 

They  were  standing  beneath  the  very  last  line  of 
trees,  before  there  began  the  bit  of  waste  and  the 
ruined  garden.  The  village  boys  were  there  yet, 
turned  —  all  but  two  of  them  —  to  some  other  idle 
sport  about  the  chimney  and  the  fallen  beams. 
These  two,  loath  to  give  up  the  beast  they  were  tor- 
menting, and  childishly  wrathful  against  the  in- 
truder, stood  watching  him  from  behind  a  thorn 
bush. 

"Will  you  do  so?"  said  Aderhold.  "That  is  well! 
101 


THE  WITCH 

I  am  going  your  way  through  the  wood.  I  will  carry 
it  until  we  reach  the  path  to  the  cottage." 

They  moved  from  the  clearing  and  the  sight  of  the 
thorn  bush.  It  was  dim  now  in  the  wood,  with  an 
evening  wind  and  darkness  stealing  through.  They 
walked  rather  swiftly  than  slowly. 

"I  heard  that  Goodman  Heron  had  come  back," 
said  Aderhold.  "  You  are  his  daughter?" 

"Yes.   I'm  Joan." 

"You  have  been  away  a  long  time." 

"Aye.  Three  years  come  Saint  John's  Eve." 

"Three  years.  —  I  have  been  here  three  years." 

"  You  are  the  physician?"  asked  Joan.  "  You  live 
at  the  Oak  Grange  with  Master  Hard  wick?" 

"Aye.  At  the  Oak  Grange." 

"They  say  that  fairies  dance  there  and  that  a 
demon  haunts  it." 

" '  They  say '  is  the  father  and  mother  of  delusion." 

"  I  would  wish  there  were  no  demons,"  said  Joan, 
"but  some  fairies  are  not  ill  folk.  But  the  minister 
saith  that  God  hates  all  alike." 

They  came  to  the  edge  of  the  forest,  before  them 
the  threadlike  green  path  to  Heron's  cottage.  "I 
must  go  on  now  by  the  road,"  said  Aderhold.  Joan 
held  out  her  hands  and  he  put  in  them  the  white  and 
grey  cat.  "You  are  a  good  maid  to  help  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  have  little  power  to  do  aught  for  any  one, 
but  if  I  can  serve  you  ever  I  will."  He  turned  to  the 
road  and  the  sick  man,  she  to  the  cottage  gate. 

The  next  morning  there  came  a  visitor,  indeed, 
102 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

to  Heron's  cottage,  Master  Harry  Carthew,  the 
squire's  brother,  who  fastened  his  horse  to  the  elm  at 
the  gate,  and  came  up  the  path  between  the  daffodils 
in  his  great  boots  and  his  sad-coloured  doublet  and 
wide-brimmed  hat.  Joan,  watching  from  the  win- 
dow, —  her  father  was  just  without  and  would  meet 
him,  —  thought  how  handsome  a  man  he  was,  but 
also  how  stern  was  his  aspect,  stern  almost  as  if  the 
world  were  all  a  churchyard,  with  graves  about.  .  .  . 
It  seemed  that  he  had  some  writings  that  he  wished 
copied.  As  she  moved  about  the  kitchen  she  heard 
his  voice  in  explanation.  The  voice,  she  thought, 
was  like  the  gentleman,  a  well-made  voice,  and  yet 
hard,  and  yet  melancholy,  too.  She  heard  him  say 
that  he  would  ride  by  in  a  day  or  so  for  the  writing 
—  and  then  he  said  that  the  day  was  warm  and 
asked  for  a  cup  of  water. 

Old  Heron  turned  his  head.  "Joan!" 
Joan  filled  a  cup  with  fresh  well  water,  set  it  on  a 
trencher  for  salver,  and  brought  it  forth  to  the 
squire's  brother.  He  lifted  it  to  his  lips  and  drank. 
Goodman  Cole's  advice  to  the  contrary,  Joan  stood 
with  a  level  gaze,  with  the  result  that  she  was  aware 
that  as  he  drank  he  looked  steadily  at  her  over  the 
rim  of  the  cup.  It  was  not  a  free  or  distasteful  look, 
rather  it  had  in  it  melancholy  and  wonder.  He  put 
the  cup  down  and  presently  went  away. 

Two  days  thereafter  he  came  with  other  papers  to 
be  copied.  A  pouring  rain  arrived  upon  his  heels  and 
he  must  sit  with  old  Heron  in  the  kitchen  until  it 

103 


THE  WITCH 

was  over.  The  room  was  bright  and  clean.  Joan, 
having  put  for  him  her  father's  chair,  sat  to  one  side 
spinning;  old  Heron  took  a  stool.  They  were  yeoman 
stock,  and  the  squire's  brother  was  gentry.  Carthew 
spoke  little  and  the  others  waited  for  him  to  speak. 
The  room  was  quiet  save  for  the  whirr  of  the  wheel 
and  the  rain  without.  The  white  and  grey  cat  lay 
by  the  hearth.  Old  Heron  had  thrown  fresh  faggots 
on  the  fire,  and  the  tongues  of  flame  threw  a  danc- 
ing light. 

The  little  speech  there  was,  and  that  solely  be- 
tween the  two  men,  fell  upon  the  affairs  of  the  coun- 
try. The  discovery  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot  was 
seven  months  old,  but  England  still  echoed  to  the 
stupendous  noise  it  had  made.  Old  Heron  said 
something  that  bore  upon  the  now  heavily  penalized 
state  of  the  Catholics. 

"Aye,  they  pulled  down  their  own  house  on  their 
own  heads!"  answered  Carthew.  He  spoke  with  a 
stern,  intense  triumph.  "I  would  have  them  forth 
from  England !  There  is  warrant  for  it  in  all  his- 
tories. As  the  Spaniards  pushed  out  the  Jews,  so 
I  would  push  them  out!" 

The  rain  stopped ;  he  rose  to  go.  Old  Heron  open- 
ing the  door,  let  in  a  burst  of  fresh  sweetness.  Joan 
stood  up  from  her  wheel,  and,  as  Carthew  passed, 
curtsied.  He  made  an  inclination  of  his  head,  their 
eyes  met.  There  was  that  in  his  look  that  both 
challenged  and  besought,  that,  at  all  events,  left  her 
troubled  enough. 

104 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

Again  two  days  and  he  came  to  recover  what  was 
copied.  Again  she  sat  and  span,  and  again  she  was 
conscious  that  he  looked  at  her  rather  than  at  her 
father,  and  that,  though  he  spoke  aloud  only  to  her 
father,  there  was  some  utterance  trying  to  pierce  its 
way  to  her.  He  went  away  —  but  the  next  day  he 
came  again,  when  there  was  no  looking  for  him. 

Her  father  was  away  to  the  village.  She  was  at  the 
well,  beneath  the  apple  tree,  by  the  heartsease  bed. 
She  turned  from  lifting  the  cool,  brimming,  dripping 
bucket,  and  saw  him  close  beside  her. 

"Good-day,"  he  said. 

"Good-day,  sir.  —  He  is  not  here.  Father  is  not 
here!'7 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,"  he  answered;  then,  after 
a  silence  in  which  she  became  aware  that  he  was 
fighting,  she  knew  not  why,  for  breath,  "But  you 
are  here." 

"Aye,"  said  Joan.  "I  —  I  have  so  much  to  do." 
She  left  the  bucket  on  the  coping  of  the  well  and 
started  toward  the  cottage.  "Father  went  but  a 
little  while  ago.  You  may  overtake  him,  sir,  — " 

Carthew  stood  before  her.  "I  have  seen  you  at 
church  three  times.  I  have  seen  you  here  three 
times.  For  years  I  had  not  thought  of  earthly  toys 
—  my  mind  was  set  on  the  coming  of  the  Kingdom 
of  God.  .  .  .  And  now  you  —  you  come.  ...  I  think 
you  have  bewitched  me." 

Joan's  heart  beat  violently.  A  strong  presence 
was  beside  her,  before  her.  She  wrenched  herself  free. 

105 


THE  WITCH 

"  You  must  not  speak  so,  sir.  You  must  not  speak 
so,  Master  Car thew!  I  am  naught  to  you — you 
can  be  naught  to  me."  Brushing  by  him,  she  began 
to  walk  swiftly  toward  the  cottage. 

He  kept  beside  her.  "You  are  much  to  me  —  and 
I  will  be  much  to  you.  .  .  .  God  knoweth  the  strug- 
gle, and  knoweth  if  I  be  damned  or  no !  —  But  now 
I  will  abide  in  this  land  that  I  believed  not  in  —  but 
I  will  serve  Him  still ;  even  where  I  am,  I  will  serve 
Him  more  strictly  than  before !  So  perhaps  He  will 
accept,  and  not  too  dreadfully  condemn.  .  .  .  Do  not 
doubt  that  I  mean  honestly  by  you." 

"What  you  mean  or  mean  not,  I  know  not!"  said 
Joan.  "But  I  am  all  but  a  stranger  to  you,  sir,  and 
I  will  to  remain  so!  Will  you  not  go?  —  and  my 
father  shall  bring  you  the  writings  — " 

Carthew's  hand  clasped  and  unclasped.  He  had 
gone  further  than  he  ever  meant  to  go  to-day. 
Indeed,  he  had  no  plan,  no  gathered  ideas.  He  might 
have  pleaded  that  he  was  himself  a  victim,  struck 
down  unawares.  Forces  within  had  gathered,  no 
doubt,  for  a  violent  reaction  after  violent,  long- 
continued  repression,  and  chance  had  set  a  woman, 
young  and  fair,  in  the  eye  of  the  reaction  —  and 
now  in  his  soul  there  was  a  divided  will  and  war, 
war!  His  brow  showed  struggle  and  misery,  even 
while  his  eyes  and  parted  lips  desired  wholly. 

With  effort  he  won  a  temporary  control.  "  I  did 
not  mean  to  frighten  you.  I  mean  no  harm.  I  will 
say  nothing  more  —  not  now,  at  least.  Yes,  I  will 

106 


THE  SQUIRE'S  BROTHER 

ride  away  now,  and  come  for  the  writing  another 
day.  —  See,  I  am  naught  now  but  friend  and  well- 
wisher!" 

That  a  squire's  brother  should  conceive  that  he 
might  take  some  slight  liberty  with  a  cotter's  daugh- 
ter, that  he  might,  on  a  May  day  and  none  looking, 
snatch  a  kiss  or  steal  an  arm  about  her,  was  truly, 
in  Joan's  time,  neither  a  great  rarity  nor  a  great 
matter.  If  it  went  no  further  than  that,  it  need 
not  be  especially  remembered.  Rebuff  with  vigour, 
if  you  chose,  but  so  that  the  thing  ended  there,  it 
was  no  hanging  matter !  At  the  castle,  page  or  es- 
quire might  have  been  more  forward  than  Carthew, 
and  Joan,  though  she  sent  them  about  their  busi- 
ness, might  have  done  so  with  some  inward  laughter. 
But  Master  Harry  Carthew!  He  was  a  Puritan, 
strict  and  stern,  he  was  always  with  the  minister, 
he  walked  with  the  Bible  and  by  the  Bible.  He  was 
no  hypocrite  either;  it  was  easy  to  see  that  he  was 
earnest.  Then  what  did  he  have  to  do  with  com- 
ing here  so,  troubling  her  so?  Joan  felt  a  surge  of 
anger  and  fright.  Something  boding  and  pestilential 
seemed  to  gather  like  a  mist  about  her. 

The  two,  both  silent  now,  moved  out  of  the 
shadow  of  the  fruit  trees  into  the  blossomy  hand- 
breadth  before  the  cottage  door.  As  they  did  so, 
Alison  Inch  came  by  the  gate,  saw  the  horse  fas- 
tened to  the  elm,  and,  looking  through  the  wicket, 
Carthew  and  Joan.  If  she  had  meant  to  come  in 
or  no  did  not  appear;  she  stood  stock-still  for  a 

107 


THE  WITCH 

moment,  then  put  herself  into  motion   again   and 
passed  on. 

If  Carthew  saw  her,  he  paid  no  attention.  But 
Joan  saw  her,  saw  her  face  quite  plainly.  When  Car- 
thew—  with  a  sudden  and  harsh  "Good-bye  for 
this  time;  or,  good-bye  forever,  if  so  be  I  can  yet 
kill  this  thing  within  me ! "  —  strode  away  and 
through  the  gate,  and,  mounting  his  horse,  rode  off 
with  a  stiff  bearing,  not  looking  back,  she  stood  for  a 
moment  or  two  with  a  still,  expressionless  face,  then, 
moving  slowly  to  the  doorstep,  sat  down  and  took 
her  head  into  her  hands.  She  was  seeing  again  Ali- 
son's face.  "That's  what  she  meant  the  other  day 
—  she  meant  that  at  church  I  was  minding,  not  the 
psalm,  but  that  man.  .  .  .  Then,  doth  she  mind  him 
so  herself  that  she  looked  so,  there  at  the  gate?  .  .  . 
Woe 's  me ! ' '  mourned  Joan.  ' '  Here 's  a  coil ! ' ' 


CHAPTER   IX 

THE   OAK  GRANGE 

ADERHOLD  sat  in  the  moth-eaten  old  chair,  in  the 
bare  room,  beside  the  bed  in  which,  seventy-odd 
years  before,  Master  Hard  wick  had  been  born  and 
in  which  he  was  now  to  die.  The  old  man  lay  high 
upon  the  pillows.  He  slept  a  good  deal,  but  when  he 
waked  his  mind  was  clear,  not  weakened  like  his 
body.  Indeed,  the  physician  thought  that  the  men- 
tal flame  burned  more  strongly  toward  the  end,  as 
though  Death  fanned  away  some  heavy  and  dulling 
vapour. 

Master  Hardwick  was  sleeping  now.  Old  Dorothy 
had  tiptoed  in  to  see  how  matters  went,  and,  after 
a  whispered  word,  had  tiptoed  out  again.  She  was 
fond  of  Aderhold  —  she  said  that  the  Oak  Grange 
had  been  human  since  he  came. 

He  sat  musing  in  the  great  chair.  Four  years. 
.  .  .  Four  years  in  this  still  house.  He  felt  a  great 
pity  for  the  old  man  lying  drawn  and  crumpled  there 
beside  him,  a  pity  and  affection.  The  two  were 
kindred.  He  had  this  refuge,  this  nook  in  the  world, 
this  home  to  be  grateful  for,  and  he  was  grateful. 
Moreover,  the  old  man  depended  upon  him,  de- 
pended and  clung.  .  .  .  Four  years  —  four  years 
of  security  and  peace.  They  had  been  bought  at  a 

109 


THE  WITCH 

price.  He  saw  himself,  a  silent  figure,  watching  all 
things  but  saying  naught,  keeping  silence,  conform- 
ing, agreeing  by  his  silence.  He  thought  a  braver 
man  would  not  have  been  so  silent.  .  .  .  Four 
years  —  four  years  of  the  quietest  routine,  going 
where  there  was  sickness  and  he  was  called,  wander- 
ing far  afield  in  a  country  not  thickly  peopled,  lying 
musing  by  streams  or  in  deep  woods,  or  moving  upon 
long  bare  hilltops  with  the  storm  sky  or  the  blue 
sky,  going  punctually  to  church  each  Sunday,  pay- 
ing to  the  tithing-man  some  part  of  his  scant  earn- 
ings. .  .  then  at  the  Oak  Grange  sitting  with  this 
old  man,  drawing  him,  when  he  could,  out  of  his 
self -absorption  and  his  fears.  Aderhold  was  tender 
with  his  fears;  that  which  weighed  upon  his  own 
soul  was  his  own  fear,  and  it  made  him  comprehend 
the  other's  terrors,  idle  though  he  thought  they 
were.  He  thought  that  from  some  other  dimension 
his  own  would  seem  as  idle  —  and  yet  they  bowed 
him  down,  and  kept  him  forever  fabricating  a  mask. 
Four  years.  In  the  small  bare  room  which  was 
called  his  and  which,  through  care  for  old  Dorothy, 
he  himself  kept  and  cleaned,  there  stood  an  oaken 
press,  where  under  lock  and  key  he  guarded  ink 
and  pen  and  paper  and  a  book  that  he  was  writing. 
That  guess  at  qualities,  at  origins  and  destinies,  that 
more  or  less  mystical  vision,  taste  and  apprehension 
of  ground  and  consequence,  that  intuition  of  all 
things  in  flood,  of  form  out  of  form,  of  unity  in 
motion  —  all  that  in  France  he  had  outspoken,  and 

no 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

in  speaking  had  like  to  have  lost  liberty  and  life  — 
all  that  he  had  not  spoken  of  here  these  four  years, 
hard-by  Hawthorn  Village  and  church  —  all  this  he 
was  striving  to  put  there  upon  paper.  He  rose  at 
dawn  and  wrote  while  the  light  strengthened;  he 
bought  himself  candles  and.  wrote  at  night  when  all 
the  place  was  so  still  that  silence  grew  sound.  Four 
years  — 

Master  Hard  wick  stirred,  opened  his  eyes. 
"Gilbert!" 

"I  am  here,  cousin." 

"How  long—  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  You  do  not  fail  fast  nor  easily. 
Your  body  is  courageous." 

He  gave  him  to  drink.  As  he  put  down  the  cup 
Dorothy  opened  the  door.  Behind  her  appeared  a 
man  with  a  black  dress,  close-cut  hair,  and  a  steeple- 
crowned  hat.  Although  the  day  was  warm  he  had 
about  him  a  wide  cloak.  He  was  short  and  thin, 
with  a  pale,  acrimonious,  zealot's  face.  He  carried 
in  his  hand  a  Geneva  Bible. 

Dorothy  stammered  out,  "  Master  Clement  did 
not  wish  to  wait,  master —  " 

Clement  spoke  for  himself.  "While  I  waited  your 
master's  soul  might  have  perished,  for  a  soul  can 
perish  in  a  twinkling."  He  put  the  old  woman  aside 
with  his  hand  and  came  forward  from  the  door  to 
the  bed.  "How  do  you  do  to-day,  Master  Hard- 
wick?" 

The  old  man  made  a  feeble  movement  upon  his 
in 


THE  WITCH 

pillows.  "I  do  as  I  have  done,  Master  Clement,  — 
I  run  rapidly  toward  this  life's  end." 

"  Yea,"  said  the  minister,  "  and  I  fear  me  that  you 
run  toward  worse  than  this  life's  end !  I  am  come  — 
I  am  come,  Master  Hardwick,  to  wrestle  with  the 
Devil  for  thy  soul !  I  tell  thee,  it  stands  in  mortal 
danger  of  dropping  from  life's  end  into  that  gulf 
where  Dives  burns  and  is  mocked  from  Abraham's 
bosom ! ' ' 

Aderhold  had  risen.  Dorothy,  having  placed  a 
chair  for  Master  Clement,  was  on  the  point  of  van- 
ishing, but  the  minister  called  her  back.  "Stay, 
woman,  and  be  edified  likewise !  Or  wait !  Call  also 
the  serving-man  and  the  lad  that  I  saw  without.  It 
befits  that  a  dying  man,  suing  for  pardon  to  an 
offended  King,  should  have  his  household  about 
him." 

Dorothy  brought  them  in,  Will  and  the  boy,  her 
nephew.  The  three  stood  in  a  solemn  row.  Long 
habit  had  made  them  accept  old  master  and  his 
ways,  but  they  did  not  doubt  that  he  stood  in  peril 
of  his  soul.  It  was  proper  that  the  minister  should 
exhort  him.  They  stood  with  slightly  lifted  and 
exalted  countenances.  After  all,  so  little  came  into 
their  lives  to  make  them  feel  a  comparative  right- 
eousness, to  set  them  in  any  wise  upon  a  platform 
of  honour! 

Master  Hardwick  lay  awake  and  conscious  but 
passed  beyond  much  speaking.  Aderhold  withdrew 
into  the  shadow  of  the  bed-curtains,  and  out  of 

112 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

this  twilight  regarded  Master  Clement.  He  knew 
of  more  than  one  or  two  heroic  things  which  this  man 
had  done.  Moreover,  he  had  heard  that  years  before, 
when  Calvin  had  by  no  means  as  yet  tinctured 
England,  Master  Clement  had  stoutly  set  up  his 
standard  and  kept  strict  vigil  before  it.  It  was  whis- 
pered that  he  had  stood  in  the  pillory  for  "  No  Pope 

—  and  No  Prelates!"    Aderhold,  gazing  upon  him, 
was  aware  that  Master  Clement  would  endure  per- 
secution as  unflinchingly  as,  indubitably,  he  would 
inflict  it.   Each  quality  somehow  cancelled  the  other 

—  Master  Clement  was  out  of  it  —  and  there  was 
left  only  the  gross  waste  and  suffering.  .  .  . 

Aderhold  had  heard  priest  and  preacher,  after 
pulpit  cries  of  human  worthlessness,  of  the  insignifi- 
cance of  the  soul,  of  universal  and  hopeless  guilt,  of 
the  inflamed  mind  of  God,  of  the  hell  which,  in  the 
course  of  nature,  awaited  every  child  of  Adam,  of 
the  predestination  of  some,  indeed,  through  grace 
of  another,  to  an  unearned  glory,  of  the  eternal, 
insufferable  loss  and  anguish  of  those  multitudes 
and  multitudes  and  multitudes,  who  either  had 
never  known  or  heard  of  that  remedy,  or  who,  the 
Devil  at  their  ear,  had  made  bold  to  doubt  its  utter 
efficacy  —  he  had  heard  and  seen  such  men,  at 
death-beds,  in  the  presence  of  solemn  and  temperate 
Death,  turn  from  what  they  preached  to  Reason 
and  Love.  He  had  heard  them  try  to  smooth  away 
the  deep  and  dark  trenches  in  the  bewildered  brain 
which  they  themselves  had  done  their  best  to  dig. 


THE  WITCH 

He  thought  their  conversion  the  saddest  miracle 

—  sad,  for  it  did  not  last.   Death  passed  for  that 
time  from  their  view,  back  they  went  to  preach  to 
listening  throngs  who  must  die,  Inherited  Guilt,  In- 
herited, fiendish  punishment,  an  Inherited,  fearful 
God,  an  Inherited  curse  upon  enquiry,  and  the  hum- 
bling, indeed,  of  an  Inherited  vicarious  atonement. 
...  He  wondered  that  they  never  foresaw  their 
own  death-bed.   He  thought  that  they  never  truly, 
bone  and  marrow,  believed  what  they  said,  but  that 
the  reverberating  voices  of  the  ages  behind  them 
stunned,  went  through  them,  produced  an  automatic 
voice  and  action.  To  resist  that  insistence,  to  breast 
the  roaring  stream  of  the  past  —  he  acknowledged 
that  it  was  difficult,  difficult! 

Three  or  four  times  in  these  years  he  had  chanced 
to  find  himself  together  with  Master  Clement  at 
some  death-bed.  Once  he  had  seen  him  soften  —  a 
child  dying  and  crying  out  in  terror  of  the  Judgement 
Day.  ' '  You  were  baptized  —  you  were  baptized  — '  * 
repeated  the  minister  to  him  over  and  over  again. 
"  I  baptized  you  myself.  You  are  safe  —  you  are 
safe,  my  dear  child !  The  Lord  Christ  will  help  you 

—  the  Lord  Christ  will  help  you  — "  But  the  child 
had  died  in  terror. 

To-day  there  was  no  softening  in  the  aspect  of 
Master  Clement.  This  old  man  before  him  was  a 
wretched  miser  hoarding  gold,  a  solitary  who  in  this 
dark  old  house  as  probably  as  not  practised  alchemy, 
lusting  to  turn  lead  and  iron  into  gold,  and  as  prob- 

114 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

ably  as  not  practised  it  by  unlawful  and  demoniacal 
aid.  Rarely  was  he  seen  in  church  —  too  feeble  to 
come,  he  said ;  too  unwilling,  thought  Master  Clem- 
ent. He  did  not  give  of  his  substance,  he  was  bitter 
and  misliked,  he  asked  no  prayers  —  Master  Clem- 
ent had  many  counts  against  him,  and  was  fain 
to  believe  that  they  tallied  with  God's  counts.  He 
girded  himself  and  came  forth  to  wrestle  with  and 
throw  this  soul,  and  by  the  hair  of  its  head  to  drag 
it  from  the  edge  of  the  bottomless  pit.  He  wrestled 
for  the  better  part  of  an  hour. 

Master  Hard  wick  lay  unwinking,  high  upon  his 
pillows.  Aderhold  could  not  tell  how  much  really 
entered  ear  and  mind;  the  old  man  seemed  to  be 
regarding  something  far  away,  something  growing 
in  the  distance.  The  pity  of  it,  he  thought,  was  for 
Will  and  old  Dorothy  and  the  boy ;  they  were  drink- 
ing, drinking  . 

At  last  Master  Clement  desisted.  He  stared  with 
a  fixed  face  at  Master  Hard  wick  who  stared  be- 
yond him.  "Thou  impenitent  old  man — !"  He 
rose  and  with  a  gesture  dismissed  the  three  in  line. 
Will  and  Dorothy  and  the  boy  filed  out,  primed 
to  discuss  among  themselves  master's  impenitency. 
"I  go  now,  Master  Hardwick,"  said  the  minister, 
' '  but  I  shall  come  again  to-morrow,  though  I  fear  me 
thou  art  as  utterly  lost  as  any  man  in  England!" 

Aderhold  accompanied  him  from  the  chamber 
into  the  hall.  He  knew  that  it  was  in  order  to  speak 
with  unction  of  the  just  closed  exhortation ;  to  won- 


THE  WITCH 

der  at  the  minister's  fervent  power,  and  deprecate 
with  sighs  and  shaken  head  the  horrible  wickedness 
of  the  human  heart;  to  marvel  that  any  could  hold 
out  against  the  truth  so  presented  —  how  many 
times  had  he  heard  such  an  utterance  and  seen  the 
self-congratulation  behind  —  how  many  times !  He 
knew  that  the  pause  which  the  minister  made,  un- 
conscious as  it  certainly  was,  was  a  pause  for  the 
accustomed  admiration.  When  it  did  not  come  he 
saw  that,  as  unconsciously  again,  Master  Clement's 
mistrust  of  him  deepened.  He  knew  that,  for  all 
his  locked  lips  and  eyes  withheld  from  expression, 
for  all  his  stillness,  repression,  and  church-going, 
the  minister  liked  him  not.  The  clash  of  minds 
came  subtly  through  whatever  walls  you  might 
build  around  it. 

"  I  fear,  Master  Aderhold,"  now  said  the  minister, 
"that  you  have  done  little  during  your  residence 
with  your  kinsman  to  bring  him  to  repentance. 
Surely,  in  these  years  of  such  close  communion,  a 
godly  man  could  have  done  much!  Such  a  man  as 
Harry  Carthew  would  have  had  him  by  now  day 
and  night  upon  his  knees!" 

Aderhold  sighed,  then  dropped  the  veil,  and  rais- 
ing his  head,  spoke  eye  to  eye.  "  I  would  that  I  could 
make  you  believe,  Master  Clement,  that  there  is  in 
this  old  man  who  is  coming  to  die  more  good  than 
ill.  In  these  years  that  you  speak  of,  I  have  seen 
that  good  grow,  of  its  own  motion,  upon  the  ill. 
Why  may  it  not  continue,  throughout  oceans  yet  of 

116 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

experience,  to  suffuse  and  gain  upon  and  dissolve 
and  reconcile  unto  itself  the  ill?" 

Master  Clement  drew  a  sharp  "Ha!"  of  triumph. 
Here  was  heterodoxy  raising  its  head,  and  the  man 
had  always  looked  to  him  heterodox!  "Ha!  'Of  its 
own  motion! '  Beware  —  beware,  Master  Aderhold ! 
I  have  marked  you —  I  am  marking  you  still!  Be- 
ware lest  one  day  you  be  cited  for  a  creeping,  insidi- 
ous doubter  and  insinuator  of  false  doctrine!" 

He  went  away,  striding  by  the  fairy  oak  in  his 
wide  cloak  and  steeple  hat,  with  a  pale,  wrathful, 
intense  face.  Aderhold  returned  to  the  room  and  his 
patient.  Master  Hard  wick  lay  upon  his  pillows, 
with  a  countenance  much  as  it  had  been.  Aderhold, 
saying  nothing,  sat  beside  him,  and  presently  he  fell 
asleep.  Outside  it  was  high  summer,  but  cool,  with 
a  moving  air  and  a  rustling  of  every  leaf.  Hours 
passed,  the  day  waned,  the  dusk  set  in.  Aderhold, 
moving  softly,  made  a  fire  in  the  cavernous  fire- 
place, where,  even  in  winter,  Master  Hardwick 
rarely  wasted  firewood. 

When  he  came  back  the  old  man  was  awake. 
'  "Gilbert!" 

"Yes,  cousin." 

"  I  have  a  feeling  that  I  am  going  to-night  — " 

"It  is  possible." 

"Gilbert  .  .  .  you've  been  comfortable  to  me 
these  four  years.  You've  been  a  kind  of  warmth 
and  stay,  asking  nothing,  not  wasting  or  spending, 
but  giving.  .  .  .  They  think  I  am  rich,  but  I  am  not. 

117 


THE  WITCH 

I  was  never  very  rich.  ...  I  ventured  in  the  Indies* 
voyage  and  gained,  and  then  I  was  a  fool  and  ven- 
tured again  and  lost.  Since  then  I  have  been  a  poor 
man.  It  is  the  truth.  .  .  .  Give  me  something  to  keep 
me  up  — " 

Aderhold  gave  him  wine.  After  a  moment  he 
spoke  again.  ''There  are  creditors  in  the  town 
that  you'll  hear  from.  They'll  take  the  land  —  all 
but  the  bit  about  the  house.  That  and  the  house 
I  've  willed  you  —  kin  to  me,  and  kind  as  well.  .  .  . 
The  gold  they  say  I  've  buried  —  I  've  buried  none. 
There  are  twenty  pieces  that  you  '11  find  in  an  open- 
ing of  the  wall  behind  the  panel  there  —  "  He 
pointed  with  a  shaking  hand  that  sank  at  once. 
"It's  all  that's  left  —  and  you'll  have  to  bury  me 
from  it.  ...  A  miser.  .  .  .  Maybe,  but  what  I  saved 
only  lasted  me  through  with  spare  living.  If  I  had 
told  them  of  that  heavy  loss  —  my  gold  gone  down 
at  sea,  and  that,  even  so,  it  was  not  so  much  I  had 
had  to  venture  .  .  .  would  they  have  believed  me? 
No!  I  was  a  miser —  I  lied  and  hid  my  gold.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  did  not  tell  them.  ...  Do  not  tell  all  that 
you  know  and  empty  yourself  like  a  wine  skin  —  " 
His  voice  sank,  he  slept  again. 

Aderhold  thought  that  he  might  sink  from  sleep 
into  stupor  and  so  die  painlessly  and  without  words. 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  night  he  waked  again. 

"Gilbert!" 

"Yes,  I  am  here." 

"What  did  you  think  of  all  that  which  Master 
118 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

Clement  had  to  say?  .  .  .  How  much  was  true  and 
how  much  was  false?" 

"There  was  some  truth.  But  much  of  it  was  false. 
It  is  false  because  reason  and  feeling,  the  mind  and 
the  spirit  recoil  from  it.  Whatever  is,  that  is  not." 

"  I  never  thought  it  was.  .  .  .  I've  been  called  sour 
and  hard  and  withholding,  and  maybe  I  am  it  all. 
But  I  would  not  make  an  imperfect  creature  and 
then  plague  it  through  eternity  for  its  imperfection. 
.  .  .Gilbert—" 

"Yes?" 

"What  would  you  do?" 

Aderhold  came  and  knelt  beside  the  bed,  and  laid 
his  hands  over  the  cold  and  shrunken  hand  of  Mas- 
ter Hardwick.  "  I  would  trust  and  hope  —  and  that 
not  less  in  myself  than  in  that  Other  that  seems  to 
spread  around  us.  I  think  that  ourselves  and  that 
Other  may  turn  out  to  be  the  same.  I  would  think  of 
myself  as  continuing,  as  journeying  on,  as  surely 
carrying  with  me,  in  some  fashion,  memory  of  the 
past,  as  growing  endlessly  through  endless  experi- 
ence. I  would  take  courage.  And  if,  in  my  heart,  I 
knew  that  in  this  life  I  had  at  times  —  not  all  the 
time,  but  at  times  —  been  sour  and  hard  and  with- 
holding and  fearful,  and  if  I  felt  in  my  heart  that 
that  made  against  light  and  love  and  wisdom  and 
strength  for  all  —  then,  as  I  lay  here  dying,  and  as 
I  died,  I  would  put  that  withholding  and  fear  from 
me,  and  step  forth  toward  better  things.  .  .  There 
is  within  you  a  fountain  of  love  and  strength. 

119 


THE  WITCH 

Trust  yourself  to  your  higher  self.  .  .  .   Hoist  sail 
and  away!" 

The  night  passed,  and  at  dawn  Master  Hard  wick 
died.  Aderhold  closed  his  eyes,  straightened  his 
limbs,  and  smoothed  the  bed  upon  which  he  lay. 
Going  to  the  window  he  set  the  casement  wide.  The 
dawn  was  coming  up  in  stairs  and  slopes  of  splendour. 
The  divine  freshness,  the  purity,  the  high,  austere 
instigation,  the  beginning  again.  .  .  .  The  dawn  per- 
petual, never  ceasing,  the  dawn  elsewhere  when  here 
would  be  noon,  the  dawn  elsewhere  when  here  would 
be  night  —  Never,  from  the  first  mists  upon  earth 
rising  to  the  great  sun,  had  dawn  failed,  dawn  rising 
from  the  bath  of  night  and  sleep,  dawn  the  new  birth, 
the  beginning  again,  the  clean-washed.  .  .  .  Ader- 
hold breathed  the  divine  air,  the  blended  solemnity 
and  sweetness.  The  light  was  growing,  a  thousand 
beauties  were  unfolding,  and  with  them  laughter  and 
song.  The  water  rippling  over  the  stones  came  to 
him  with  a  sound  of  merriment.  The  window  was 
clustered  around  with  ivy  and  a  spray  nodded, 
nodded  against  his  hand  with  an  effect  of  familiarity, 
a  friend  tapping  to  call  his  attention.  From  some 
near-by  bush  a  thrush  began  to  sing  —  so  golden, 
so  clear.  '  *  O  moving  great  and  small ! ' '  said  Ader- 
hold; "O  thought  of  all  sense  and  soul,  gathered, 
interfused,  and  aware  of  a  magic  Oneness!  O  mac- 
rocosm that  I,  the  microcosm,  will  one  day  lift  to 
and  be  and  know  that  I  am  —  O  sea  of  all  faiths, 
O  temperer  of  every  concept,  O  eternal  permission 

1 20 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

and  tolerance,  nurse  of  growth  and  artifex  of  form 
from  form !  .  .  .  These  children's  masks  which  we  lift 
upon  a  stick  and  call  Thee,  crying,  Lo,  this  is  God 
with  the  fixed  face  — " 

He  rested  a  little  longer  in  the  window,  listening 
to  the  thrush,  then  turned,  looked  again  at  the  quiet 
figure  upon  the  bed,  and  going  from  the  room 
wakened  old  Dorothy  and  the  boy.  Later  that  day, 
Will,  Goodman  Cole,  old  Heron,  and  a  lawyer  from 
the  town  being  present,  he  searched  for  and  found  the 
spring  that  opened  the  panel  Master  Hardwick  had 
indicated.  Behind  was  a  recess,  and  within  it  twenty 
gold-pieces.  He  gave  them  into  the  lawyer's  hands 
for  keeping. 

They  buried  Master  Hardwick  in  Hawthorn 
Churchyard.  Hard  upon  the  end  of  that,  there  ap- 
peared a  merchant  and  a  man  of  means  from  the 
town  with  a  note-of-hand.  The  farm  land,  such  as 
it  was,  would  go  there  in  satisfaction.  The  lawyer 
produced  a  will  made  one  year  before.  Lacking  issue 
and  near  kindred,  Master  Hardwick  left  all  that  he 
had,  his  creditors  being  satisfied,  to  his  loving  cousin, 
the  physician,  Gilbert  Aderhold.  What  that  was  in 
reality  was  solely  the  decaying  old  house  and  the 
few  acres  of  worn  garden  and  orchard  immediately 
surrounding  it.  The  twenty  pieces  of  gold,  when  all 
was  paid,  shrunk  to  three. 

Aderhold  dwelled  solitary  in  the  Oak  Grange  as 
he  and  his  kinsman  had  dwelled  solitary  before.  The 
land  around  went  no  longer  with  the  Grange,  but 

121 


THE  WITCH 

there  was  no  change  else.  The  old  tenants  hung  on ; 
it  still  spread,  poor  in  soil,  poorly  tilled,  shut  off  from 
the  richer  vale  by  Hawthorn  Forest.  Will  no  longer 
came  to  the  Grange;  Aderhold,  old  Dorothy,  and 
the  boy  lived  in  the  place  and  kept  it.  There  was  no 
other  money  than  the  scant  sixpences  and  shillings 
that  the  physician  gained.  To  sell  the  house  sounded 
well,  but  there  was  no  purchaser.  The  place  was 
ruinous,  lonely,  and  without  advantage,  said  to  be 
haunted  as  well.  Aderhold,  only,  had  grown  to 
love  it,  the  ivied  walls  and  the  wild  garden,  the  oak 
and  the  stream,  and  the  room  where  he  took  from 
behind  locked  doors  his  book  and  sat  and  wrote. 
All  was  so  quiet,  still,  secure,  there  behind  the  shield 
of  Hawthorn  Forest.  .  .  . 

But  Hawthorn  countryside  and  village  refused  to 
believe  that  the  gold  was  gone.  It  was  known  that 
the  dead  miser  had  had  a  chest-full  of  broad  pieces. 
Probably  he  had  buried  this  great  store  —  some 
said  under  the  house  itself,  some  said  under  the 
fairies'  oak.  Wherever  it  was  buried,  certainly  the 
leech  must  know  where  it  was ;  or  if  he  did  not  know 
yet,  he  would.  If  one  were  to  go  that  way  through 
Hawthorn  Forest,  and  come  into  sight  of  the  house 
and  see  a  candle  passing  from  window  to  window, 
or  hear  a  digging  sound  in  the  orchard  or  beneath 
the  ill-named  oak,  that  would  be  he.  ...  A  whisper 
arose,  none  knew  how,  that  Master  Hard  wick  had 
practised  alchemy,  and  that  his  kinsman  practised 
it  too;  that  he  knew  how  to  make  gold.  If  he  knew, 

122 


THE  OAK  GRANGE 

then,  of  course,  he  would  be  making  it,  in  the  dead  of 
night.  Could  you  make  gold  alone,  unaided  by  any 
but  your  own  powers?  Alchemists,  it  was  known, 
did  not  hesitate  to  raise  a  spirit  or  demon.  Then 
there  was  little  difference  between  an  alchemist  and 
a  sorcerer?  .  .  .  There  came  among  the  whispers  a 
counter-statement  from  several  cotters  and  poor 
folk.  Master  Aderhold  was  no  sorcerer  —  he  was 
a  good  leech ;  witness  such  and  such  a  cure !  Where- 
upon opposition  sharpened  the  whisperers'  ingen- 
uity. Aye,  perhaps  the  demon  helped  him  cure  as 
well  as  make  gold !  Came  another  counter  —  he  was 
a  good  church-goer.  So !  but  Master  Clement  thinks 
not  highly  of  him. 

How  this  vortex  and  whirling  storm  began,  whose 
breath  first  stirred  it  up,  it  were  hard  to  say.  It  had 
moved  in  widening  rings  for  months,  before  Ader- 
hold discovered  how  darkened  was  the  air  about 
him. 


CHAPTER  X 

IN  HAWTHORN   FOREST 

IT  was  winter  —  a  mild,  bright,  winter's  day — when, 
for  the  second  time,  he  met  and  spoke  to  Joan  in  the 
forest.  She  was  standing  beneath  a  beech  tree,  in 
her  hand  a  dry,  fallen  bough  which  she  was  brand- 
ishing and  making  play  with  as  though  it  had  been 
a  quarter-staff.  She  was  singing,  though  not  in  the 
least  loudly,  — 

'"I  have  heard  talk  of  bold  Robin  Hood, 

And  of  brave  Little  John, 
Of  Friar  Tuck  and  Will  Scarlet, 

Locksley  and  Maid  Marian  — '" 

When  she  saw  Aderhold  close  to  her  she  started 
violently. 

"Good-day,"  he  said.  "I  meant  not  to  frighten 
you!" 

She  looked  at  him  curiously  and  shook  her  head. 
"No.  .  .  .  You  did  not  frighten  me.  I  am  not  at  all 
frighted." 

He  smiled.  "You  say  that  as  though  you  were 
surprised  at  yourself." 

She  looked  at  him  again  with  grey  eyes  half- 
troubled,  half -fearless.  "  It  is  n't  so  hard  to  surprise 
yourself.  .  .  .  You  did  take  that  cat  you  gave  me  from 
the  boys  who  were  stoning  her  at  the  burned  cot?" 

124 


IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST 

"Yes,"  said  Aderhold,  surprised  in  his  turn. 
"Why?" 

She  stammered.  "I  heard  them  talking,  and 
though  I  believe  not  such  things,  I  —  I  — " 

"What  things?" 

She  was  silent  for  a  moment,  then  faced  him  with 
courage.  "  I  have  heard  talk  that  you  don't  believe 
what  other  people  believe,  that  you  deny  things  that 
are  in  the  Bible,  and  that  maybe  you  practise  sor- 
cery there  in  the  Oak  Grange.  .  .  .  And  —  and  some 
one  once  told  me  that  —  that  people  like  that  had 
always  familiars  which  went  mostly  like  little  ani- 
mals such  as  a  cat  or  small  dog,  or  sometimes  a  bird 
or  a  frog,  —  and  that  —  and  that  if  they  offered  to 
give  you  such  a  thing  for  a  gift  and  —  and  you  took 
it,  you  signed  yourself  so  to  the  Evil  One.  .  .  .  But 
—  but  I  do  not  believe  such  things.  They  are 
against  all  goodness  and  —  and  good  sense." 

She  ended  somewhat  breathlessly ;  for  all  her  cour- 
age, which  was  great,  her  heart  was  beating  hard. 

"You  are  right,"  said  Aderhold.  "Such  things 
are  against  all  goodness  and  good  sense  —  and  they 
do  not  happen.  ...  I  was  going  to  see  a  sick  man, 
and  passing  by  the  burned  cottage,  I  heard  the  cat 
crying,  and  went  and  took  her  from  the  boys.  She 's 
naught  but  just  your  fireside  cat.  And  I  am  a  solitary 
man  who  has  no  familiar  and  knows  no  magic." 

He  drew  a  heavy,  oppressed  breath.  "I  did  not 
know  that  there  was  any  such  talk.  ...  It  is  miser- 
able that  there  should  be." 

125 


THE  WITCH 

He  stood  leaning  against  a  tree,  with  half-shut 
eyes.  Old  fears  came  over  him  in  a  thick  and  sicken- 
ing wave. 

"Oh  —  talk!"  said  Joan.  " There's  always  such 
a  weary  deal  of  talk."  She  had  regained  her  calm; 
at  least  she  was  no  longer  afraid  of  the  physician. 
But  for  all  that  —  and  for  all  her  comparative  hap- 
piness this  beautiful  day  and  for  her  singing  —  she 
looked  older  and  less  care-free  than  she  had  done 
last  year.  Her  face  was  thinner,  and  there  ap- 
peared in  her,  now  and  again,  a  startled,  listening 
air.  It  came  now.  "Do  you  hear  a  horse  coming?" 

At  no  part  in  the  forest  were  you  far  from  some 
cart  track  along  which  might,  indeed,  push  a  horse- 
man. One  was  here  now,  leaving  the  track  and  com- 
ing between  the  tree  boles.  Presumably  he  had 
heard  voices. 

Joan  rose  to  her  feet.  Her  eyes  were  glittering. 
"No  peace  —  "  she  said.  "He  leaves  me  no  peace 
at  all.  I  wish  he  were  dead." 

She  spoke  in  a  very  low  voice,  hardly  above  a 
whisper,  measured,  but  tinctured  with  both  anger 
and  dread.  It  was  Harry  Carthew,  Aderhold  now 
saw,  who  approached.  He  caught  sight  of  them, 
checked  the  roan  a  perceptible  moment,  then  came 
on.  The  great  horse  stopped  within  ten  feet  of  the 
two  beneath  the  beech  tree.  Carthew  sat  looking  at 
them,  a  strange  expression  upon  his  face. 

Aderhold  had  no  knowledge  of  the  why  or  where- 
fore of  his  look,  though  Joan's  ejaculation  might  be 

126 


IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST 

making  for  illumination.  But  his  mind  was  preoccu- 
pied with  those  pale  fears  which  her  earlier  speech 
had  awakened.  He  was  thinking  only  of  these  —  or 
rather  he  was  not  consciously  thinking  at  all ;  he  was 
only  gathering  his  forces  forward  after  the  recoil. 
He  answered  Carthew's  look  with  a  somewhat  blank 
gaze.  "Good-day,"  he  said. 

' 1  Give  you  good-day, ' '  answered  Carthew.  * '  How 
long  have  you  and  Joan  Heron  been  trysting?" 

Aderhold's  thoughts  were  still  away.  He  repeated 
the  word  after  the  other,  but  put  no  meaning  to  it. 
41  'Trysting'—" 

It  was  Joan  who  took  it  up,  with  a  flame  of  anger. 
"Who  is  trysting,  Master  Carthew?  —  Not  one  of 
these  three  —  not  he  with  me,  nor  I  with  him,  nor  I 
with  you!  God's  mercy!  Cannot  a  girl  speak  a  civil 
word  to  a  chance-met  neighbour  — •" 

'"Neighbour,"' said  Carthew.  "That  is  true.  I 
had  not  thought  of  that.  The  Grange  and  Heron's 
cottage  are  not  so  far  apart  —  might  be  said  to  be 
neighbours.  —  'Neighbours'  —  it  is  easy  for  neigh- 
bours to  meet  —  with  this  dark  wood  touching  each 
house."  He  lifted  his  hand  to  his  throat,  then 
turned  upon  Aderhold  with  a  brow  so  black,  a  ges- 
ture so  violent  that  the  other  instinctively  gave  back 
a  pace.  "  I  have  been  blind ! "  cried  Carthew  thickly. 
"I  have  been  blind!" 

Aderhold,  amazed,  spoke  with  an  awakening  and 
answering  anger.  "  I  do  not  know  what  you  mean, 
Master  Carthew,  —  or,  if  I  guess,  seeing  that  your 

127 


THE  WITCH 

words  will  bear  that  interpretation,  —  I  will  tell  you 
that  your  bolt  goes  wide!  —  Mistress  Joan  Heron 
and  I  chanced  to  meet  five  minutes  before  you  ap- 
peared before  us  —  and  I  do  think  in  my  soul  that 
it  is  the  second  time  we  have  spoken  together  in  our 
lives!  And  I  know  not  your  right  — " 

" '  Right ! ' "  broke  in  Joan  with  passion.  "  He  has 
no  right !  And  I  will  not  have  him  couple  my  name 
here  and  couple  it  there!  Oh,  I  would"  —  her  eyes 
blazed  at  Carthew  — "  I  would  that  so  great  a  saint 
would  leave  this  earth  and  go  to  heaven  —  if  that, 
indeed,  is  where  you  belong!" 

Carthew  sat  his  horse,  dark  as  a  thunder-cloud, 
and  for  all  his  iron  frame  and  power  of  control,  shak- 
ing like  a  leaf.  "I  believe  neither  of  you,"  he  said 
thickly.  He  looked  at  Joan.  "This  is  why  you  will 
not  turn  to  me." 

Her  eyes  flamed  against  him.  "  I  never  thought  to 
hate  a  human  creature  as  you  have  made  me  hate 
you!  —  And  now  I  am  going  home." 

She  snatched  up  the  staff  with  which  she  had  been 
playing  and  turned  with  decision.  He  turned  his 
horse  also,  but  uncertainly,  with  his  eyes  yet  upon 
Aderhold.  Black  wrath  and  jealousy  were  written 
in  his  face,  and  something  else,  a  despairing  struggle 
against  total  self-abandonment.  * '  Stay  a  moment ! ' ' 
he  cried  to  Joan.  "Will  you  swear  by  God  on  high 
that  you  and  this  man  have  not  been  meeting,  meet- 
ing in  Hawthorn  Forest?" 

Joan  turned,  stood  still  the  moment  asked. 
128 


IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST 

"Master  Carthew,  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  shall 
shortly  do  if  you  leave  me  not  alone?  I  shall  go  with 
my  father  to  the  squire  your  brother,  and  to  the 
minister,  and  to  the  three  most  zealous  men  in 
Hawthorn  Parish,  and  I  shall  say  to  them,  'This 
holy  and  zealous  young  man  whom  I  have  heard  you, 
Master  Clement,  call  Joseph,  and  young  David,  and 
what-not  —  this  same  Master  Harry  Carthew,  who 
will  speak  and  exhort  and  pray  with  sinners,  —  this 
same  man  has  for  months  made  a  harmless  girl's  life 
wretched  to  her,  offering  loathed  love  and  insult  — ' ' 

Her  voice  broke;  she  threw  up  her  arms  in  a  ges- 
ture of  anger  and  unhappiness  and  fled  away.  Car- 
thew sat  like  a  graven  image,  watching  her  go.  He 
spoke  to  himself,  in  a  curious  voice  from  the  lips 
only.  "If  ever  I  should  come  to  hate  you  as  now  I  —  " 
and  again  —  "She  will  never  dare — "  The  last 
flutter  of  her  skirt  vanished  among  the  trees.  Sud- 
denly he  said  with  violence,  "She  denied  it  not!" 
and  turned  upon  Aderhold  as  though  he  would  ride 
him  down. 

The  physician  caught  the  bridle  of  the  roan. 
"You  are  mad,  Master  Carthew!  Look  at  me!" 

He  forced  the  other's  gaze  upon  him  and  a  some- 
what cooler  judgement  into  his  eyes.  Each,  with  his 
inner  vision,  was  viewing  in  waves  and  sequences 
past  relations,  knowledge,  and  impressions.  For  the 
first  time,  general  observation  and  lukewarm  inter- 
est quickened  into  the  keen  and  particular  and  well- 
warmed.  Aderhold  saw  again  Carthew  at  the  Rose 

129 


THE  WITCH 

Tavern,  and  Carthew  upon  the  road;  heard  again 
Carthew's  cosmic  speculations  and  Carthew's  ex- 
pressed sense  of  sin.  Four  years  gone  by,  and  yet 
that  impression  remained  the  most  deeply  graved. 
After  that  came  the  long  stretch  of  time  in  this  re- 
gion, and,  during  it,  little  speech,  few  meetings  with 
Carthew.  There  had  been  knowledge  that  at  times 
he  was  away,  often  for  months,  from  Hawthorn, 
and  there  had  been  observation  at  church  and  else- 
where of  the  sterner  sort  in  him  of  Puritan  zeal  and 
faith,  together  with  hearsay  that  the  minister  and 
he  were  like  elder  and  younger  brother  in  the  word, 
and  the  younger  a  growing  power  in  this  part  of 
England  and  a  chosen  vessel.  And  there  had  been 
a  kind  of  half-melancholy,  half-artistic  and  philo- 
sophic recognition  of  the  perfection  of  the  specimen 
Carthew  afforded.  In  look,  frame,  dress,  counte- 
nance, temper,  and  inward  being,  he  seemed  the 
exactest  symbol !  —  Nowhere  further  than  all  this 
had  Aderhold  come  until  to-day. 

As  for  Carthew,  with  far  narrower  powers  of  re- 
flection, and  with  those  concentrated  with  hectic 
intensity  in  a  small  round,  it  might  be  said  that  in 
these  years  he  had  barely  regarded  or  thought  of  the 
physician  at  all.  Such  a  statement  would  be  true  of 
all  sides  but  one.  Master  Clement  had,  within  the 
past  year,  doubted  to  him  any  true  zeal  in  religion 
on  the  part  of  the  physician,  and  had  set  up  a  faint 
current  of  observation  and  misliking.  It  had  been 
nothing  much;  at  times,  when  he  thought  of  it,  he 

130 


IN   HAWTHORN  FOREST 

marked  Aderhold  at  church,  how  he  looked  and  de- 
meaned himself ;  once  or  twice  when  he  had  overheard 
some  peasant  speak  of  the  leech,  he  had  come  in  with 
his  deep  and  stern  voice.  "Aye?  Can  he  doctor  thy 
soul  as  well  as  thy  body?"  But  the  whole  together 
had  weighed  little.  He  had  the  soul  of  Harry  Car^ 
thew  to  be  concerned  for  ...  though,  of  course,  for 
that  very  soul's  salvation,  it  behooved  to  see  that 
other  lamps  were  kept  burning.  .  . .  Nay,  it  behooved 
for  those  others'  salvation  —  for  the  warfare  of  the 
true  saint  was  for  the  salvation  of  every  soul  alive !  — 
All  this  was  before  the  past  few  months.  Through 
these  months  he  had  thought  but  of  one  thing  —  or 
if  at  all  of  another  thing,  then  of  how  his  own  soul 
was  on  the  brink  of  the  pit,  with  the  Devil  whisper- 
ing, and  the  heat  of  the  flame  of  hell  already  burn- 
ing within  him.  .  .  .  And  now,  suddenly,  it  seemed 
that  the  physician  living  at  the  Oak  Grange  was  a 
figure  in  the  sum.  He  looked  at  him,  and  where 
before  he  had  seen  but  a  silently  coming  and  going 
learned  man,  to  be  somewhat  closely  watched  by 
God's  saints  lest  mysterious  knowledge  should  lead 
him  astray,  he  saw  now  a  tall  man,  still  young,  not 
ill-looking,  with  strange  knowledge  that  might  teach 
him  how  to  ingratiate.  .  .  .  He  spoke  in  a  hollow 
voice.  "I  have  been  blind." 

"  Whatever  you  may  have  been,"  said  Aderhold 
with  impatience,  "you  are  blind  in  this  hour.  Look 
at  me !  Not  for  the  sake  of  myself,  but  for  the  sake  of 
truth,  and  to  guard  another  from  misapprehension, 


THE  WITCH 

and  to  take  a  strange  poison  from  your  mind,  I 
swear  most  solemnly  that  that  maid  and  I  were 
chance-met  but  now  beneath  this  tree;  that  we 
spoke  most  generally,  and  far  afield  from  what  you 
madly  imagine;  and  that,  save  for  once  before  as 
chance  and  momentary  a  meeting,  never  have  we 
been  alone  together !  I  swear  that  I  think  in  that 
wise  of  no  woman,  and  no  woman  of  me!" 

"I  would,"  said  Carthew  heavily,  "that  I  knew 
that  you  speak  truth." 

"I  speak  it,"  said  Aderhold.  "And  in  turn  I 
would  that  you  might  bring  wisdom  and  better  love 
into  your  counsel,  and  leave  the  maid  alone!" 

Carthew  looked  at  him.  "  Is  there  idle  talk.  Have 
you  heard  such  tongue-clatter?" 

"Not  I,"  answered  the  other.  "What  I  perceive 
you  yourself  have  shown." 

"Or  she  has  said,"  said  Carthew.  He  moistened 
his  lips.  "Foolish  maids  will  make  much  of  slight 
matters!  —  If  I  have  slipped  a  little  —  if  Satan  hath 
tempted  me  and  the  foul  weakness  of  universal 
nature  —  so  that  I  have  chanced,  perhaps,  to  give 
her  a  kiss  or  to  tell  her  that  she  was  fair  —  what  hath 
it  been  to  her  hurt?  Naught  —  no  hurt  at  all.  But 
to  me.  .  .  .  Nay,  I  will  recover  myself.  God  help 
me!  I  will  not  put  my  soul  in  perdition.  God  help 
me!"  He  lifted  his  clasped  hands,  then  let  them 
drop  to  his  saddle-bow.  "I  will  begin  by  believing 
even  where  I  believe  not!  What  hurt  to  me  if  now 
and  again  you  and  Joan  Heron  speak  in  passing? 

132 


IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST 

— •  so  be  it  that  with  your  evil  learning  and  your 
commerce  who  knows  where,  you  put  not  the  maid's 
soul  in  peril  ...  so  be  it  that  you  touch  not  her  lips 
nor  her  hand  —  "  He  ceased  to  speak,  his  face  work- 
ing. 

"You  are  much  to  be  pitied,"  said  Aderhold. 
"Have  you  finished?  —  for  I  would  be  going." 

He  drew  his  cloak  about  him,  and  made  to  pass 
the  other. 

Carthew  did  not  detain  him;  he  only  said,  "  But  I 
shall  watch  you,"  gathered  up  the  roan's  reins,  and 
himself  rode  starkly  off  in  the  direction  of  the  village. 

Back  upon  the  forest  track  which  he  had  pursued, 
and  then  upon  the  road  that  ran  between  Hawthorn 
and  the  Oak  Grange,  he  saw  naught  of  Joan,  though 
he  looked  for  her.  She  was  fleet-footed ;  by  now  she 
was  within  her  own  door.  But  on  the  road,  no  great 
distance  beyond  the  cottage,  he  came  upon  another 
woman,  walking  toward  the  village.  This  was  the 
sempstress's  daughter,  Alison  Inch.  .  .  .  Two  years 
gone  by,  Alison  had  spent  some  weeks  in  Carthew 
House,  sewing  for  Madam  Carthew.  He  had  been 
reading  aloud  that  winter  to  his  sister-in-law,  who 
was  a  learned  and  pious  lady,  and  Alison  had  sat 
in  a  corner,  sewing  and  listening.  The  reading 
done,  he  had  at  times  explained  the  discourse  or 
added  illustration,  encouraging  the  women  to  ask 
questions.  —  He  felt  friendly  toward  Alison,  and 
always,  since  that  time,  answered  her  curtsy  when 
they  chanced  to  meet  by  a  grave  enquiry  as  to 

133 


THE  WITCH 

her  health  and  welfare,  the  spiritual  being  meant 
rather  than  the  bodily.  To-day  he  walked  his  horse 
beside  her. 

"You  have  been  riding  through  the  forest,  sir?" 
she  asked.  "  It  is  a  fine  day  for  riding." 

"Yes  —  I  wished  to  enquire  for  a  man  at  the 
North-End  Farm." 

He  rode  and  she  walked  in  silence,  then  she  spoke 
in  a  dry,  thin,  and  strained  voice.  "  I  was  walking  to 
Heron's  cottage  to  see  Joan.  But  she  was  not  there. 
—  She 's  not  much  like  others.  When  she  gets  her 
work  done,  she 's  off  to  herself  somewhere  —  maybe 
to  the  wood,  maybe  elsewhere.  It's  often  so  that 
you  can't  find  her." 

Now  Carthew  had  found,  too,  that  you  could  n't 
always  find  her.  Suddenly  his  brow  grew  black 
again;  he  had  not  put  that  two  and  two  together. 
"Alison,"  he  said  and  paused. 

Alison,  with  an  air  of  not  looking  at  him  at  all, 
was  watching  closely.  "Yes,  Master  Carthew?" 

He  rode  a  little  farther  in  silence,  then  he  said 
determinedly:  "Master  Aderhold  who  lives  at  the 
Oak  Grange  — "  He  paused. 

"Yes,  sir?  "said  Alison. 

"He  is  a  strange  man,"  said  Carthew.  "  I  remem- 
ber when  he  came  to  Hawthorn,  when  I  rode  with 
him  from  the  town,  I  thought  him  of  a  strange  and 
doubtful  mind.  —  We  have  not  caught  him  tripping 
yet,  but  Master  Clement  holds  that  he  thinks  per- 
versely, not  according  to  sound  doctrine." 

134 


IN  HAWTHORN  FOREST 

"People  say  that  he  makes  gold  and  hoards  it," 
said  Alison,  "  and  that  he  hath  a  familiar."  She  was 
not  interested  in  Master  Aderhold,  but  she  would 
keep  up  whatever  ball  Master  Harry  Carthew  tossed. 

"I  know  not  as  to  that,"  said  Carthew.  "It  is 
enough  if  he  setteth  up  his  own  judgement  and 
denieth  essential  doctrines.  —  It  were  surely  ill  for 
any  upon  whom  he  might  thrust  his  company  —  ill, 
I  mean,  for  them  to  be  seen  with  him  often  and  in 
close  talk.  In  common  charity  any  such  should  be 
warned.  I  dare  aver  he  is  often  straying  through  the 
forest  or  upon  this  road." 

Alison  looked  aside.  She  did  not  know  yet  what  he 
would  be  at,  but  her  every  sense  was  sharpened. 

"  Have  you  ever  seen,"  asked  Carthew  with  care- 
ful carelessness  — ' '  have  you  ever  chanced  to  see  him 
and  Goodman  Heron's  daughter  Joan  together?" 

Alison  walked  thrice  her  own  length  upon  the 
shadowy  road  before  she  answered.  It  took  a  little 
time  to  get  it  straight.  It  was  n't  Joan's  soul  that  he 
was  concerned  about  —  thought  one.  He  was  put- 
ting her  name  with  that  of  the  leech  —  had  he  seen 
them  together,  and  now  was  eaten  with  jealousy? 
She  knew  how  it  felt  to  be  eaten  with  jealousy  — 
thought  two.  If  he  believed  that  Joan  played  him 
false  —  put  him  off  for  another  —  it  could  not  but 
help,  his  thinking  that.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  aye!"  said  Alison.  "  I  have  seen  them  a  dozen 
times  walking  and  talking  together  in  the  forest. 
But  what  a  sin,  sir,  if  he  should  teach  her  heresy!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  PLAGUE 

LATE  that  winter,  after  long  immunity,  black  sick- 
ness came  to  the  town  with  the  great  church  and  the 
castle,  and  cast  a  long,  crooked  finger  across  the 
river  and  in  the  direction  of  Hawthorn  Village.  In 
the  streets  of  the  town  burned  fires  of  juniper.  Wak- 
ing in  the  night  you  might  hear  the  wheels  of  the 
death-cart.  They  stopped  before  this  house,  they 
stopped  before  that  house.  The  thought  trembled 
and  shrank  —  one  night  will  they  stop  before  this 
house?  In  the  daytime  the  bells  were  tolled. 

Hawthorn  Village  tolled  no  bells,  for  to  toll  bells 
savoured  of  "superstitious  usages."  But  it  looked 
with  a  clammy  terror  at  the  black  finger  which  had 
touched  a  farmhouse  midway  between  village  and 
town. 

The  plague  grew  worse  in  the  town.  More  and  yet 
more  houses  were  marked  and  shut.  The  richer  sort 
and  those  who  could  left  the  place,  scattered  through 
the  country,  not  always  welcome  where  they  ap- 
peared. The  mass  who  must  stay  saw  the  horror 
increase.  A  pall  came  over  the  place;  there  grew  an 
insistent  and  rapid  murmur  of  prayers.  Side  by  side 
with  that  occurred  a  relaxation  and  neglect  of  usual 
order.  The  strict  rule  in  such  cases  was  against 

136 


THE  PLAGUE 

people  coming  together  in  any  manner  of  congrega- 
tion whereby  the  infection  might  spread;  but  the 
watch  grew  sick  and  fear  constantly  sought  compan- 
ions. There  was  much  drinking  in  alehouses  and 
taverns,  no  little  gathering  together  of  one  sort  and 
another.  Side  by  side  with  wild  appeals  and  suppli- 
cations to  Heaven  wavered  a  sick  and  wan  determ- 
ination to  some  sort  of  mirth.  At  times  this  spirit 
rose  to  dare-deviltry.  Small  crimes  increased.  The 
poor  were  the  hardest  stricken,  seeing  that  for  them 
starvation  clanked  behind  disease.  Theft  and  house- 
breaking  grew  common,  while  professional  thieves 
might  and  did  make  a  harvest  feast.  The  church  bells 
tolled.  At  night  the  death-carts  increased  in  num- 
ber, the  closed  houses  increased  in  number,  the  juni- 
per smoke  rolled  thicker  and  thicker. 

But  after  one  death  in  the  farmhouse,  halfway  to 
Hawthorn,  the  black  finger  drew  back.  No  one  else 
at  the  farm  was  taken,  the  scattered  houses  between 
it  and  the  village  went  unscathed ;  time  passed  and 
no  harm  came  to  Hawthorn.  Some  said  the  river 
barred  the  infection,  others  that  the  air  was  different. 
One  or  two  at  most  called  attention  to  the  great 
crowding  in  the  town,  to  the  massed  poverty  and 
dirt,  —  whereas  the  village  was  open-built  and  rea- 
sonably clean,  —  and  to  the  traffic  between  the 
town  and  a  large  seaport,  whereas  small  was  the 
business  of  Hawthorn  and  few"  the  strangers.  But 
the  most  part  of  Hawthorn  Village  and  the  country 
to  the  north  of  it  knew  otherwise  and  said  otherwise 

137 


THE  WITCH 

with  unction  and  lifted  looks.  Pestilence  came  like 
comets,  as  a  visitation  and  a  sign  from  on  high. 
Jehovah  launched  the  one  and  the  other.  Fire 
against  the  cities  of  the  plain  —  plague  against  pre- 
latical  towns  and  castles,  only  not  Popish  by  a  nar- 
row line,  retainers  of  stained  glass  and  images,  organ- 
players  and  bowers  of  the  head,  waiting  but  their 
chance  to  reinstate  a  wearing  of  copes  and  lighting 
of  candles!  The  wonder  was  not  that  the  plague 
came,  but  that  Jehovah  had  so  long  withheld  his 
hand !  In  Hawthorn  Church  they  prayed  that  the 
plague  might  cease  from  the  afflicted  town,  but 
prayed  knowing  that  the  plague  had  been  deserved. 
Now  that  the  outstretched  black  finger  had  been  de- 
finitely withdrawn,  the  analyst  might  have  found 
in  the  prayer  of  some  —  not  of  all  —  a  flavour  of  tri- 
umph. Was  it  not  also  Jehovah's  doing  that  the  pure 
faith  was  so  adorned  with  health  and  vindicated? 

The  town  grew  a  gloomy  place  indeed,  filled  with 
apprehension.  People  viewing  it  from  distant  hills 
professed  to  see  hanging  over  it  a  darkened  and 
quivering  air  of  its  own.  The  streets  had  a  deserted 
look,  with  fires  burning  and  none  around  them.  The 
death-carts  went  more  frequently,  and  the  bells 
clanged,  clanged.  There  was  a  need  of  physicians, 
those  in  the  place  being  overworked  and  one  smitten. 
About  the  time  that  the  black  finger  drew  back  from 
the  farmhouse,  Gilbert  Aderhold  walked  to  the  town 
and  offered  his  services.  Thereafter  for  weeks  he  was 
busied,  day  and  night. 

138 


THE  PLAGUE 

Up  in  the  castle  above  the  town,  a  kinsman  of  the 
earl's  stayed  on  after  the  hurried  departure  of  the 
great  family  to  another  seat  in  an  untouched  coun- 
tryside. Heir  to  a  burdened  estate  and  courtier  out 
of  favour,  not  pleased  for  reasons  of  his  own  to 
remove  with  the  earl,  and  liking  for  another  set  of 
reasons  the  very  solitariness  of  the  huge  old  abode, 
assured  that  the  infection  would  not  mount  the  cliff 
and  pass  the  castle  wood,  and  constitutionally  care- 
less of  danger,  he  asked  leave  to  stay  on,  keep  ward 
with  the  old  housekeeper,  the  armour  in  the  hall,  the 
earl's  regiment  of  books,  and  his  own  correspond- 
ence with  foreign  scholars.  He  stayed,  and  for 
exercise  rode  through  the  country  roundabout,  and 
now  and  then,  to  satisfy  a  philosophic  curiosity, 
through  the  town  itself.  The  ideas  of  the  time  as  to 
quarantine  were  lax  enough.  The  sick  were  shut 
away  in  the  houses,  purifying  fires  burned  in  the 
streets;  if  you  were  careful  to  avoid  any  who  looked 
in  the  faintest  degree  as  though  they  might  be  sick- 
ening, life  and  business  might  go  on.  The  rider  from 
the  castle,  when  he  came  down  into  the  place,  car- 
ried with  him  and  put  often  to  his  nostrils  a  quantity 
of  medicated  spices  and  perfumed  grains  from  the 
Orient,  carried  in  a  small  perforated  silver  box. 

Riding  so  through  the  streets  one  day  he  came 
upon  Aderhold,  his  foot  upon  the  doorstep  of  a 
marked  house.  He  drew  rein.  "Ha,  the  travelling 
scholar!  —  Are  you  physician  here?" 

"Until  the  trouble  is  abated." 
139 


THE  WITCH 

1 '  Black  enough  trouble ! ' '  said  the  rider.  ' '  Toll ,  toll ! 
The  place  is  more  ghastly  than  a  row  of  gibbets." 

"  Abroad,"  said  Aderhold,  "I  have  seen  this  sick- 
ness in  a  far  worse  form.  I  have  hopes  that  it  will  not 
outlast  the  winter." 

The  other  smelled  at  his  box  of  spices.  "  Do  you 
feel  no  fear,  bending  over  their  beds?" 

Aderhold  shook  his  head.  ' '  No.  It  is  my  calling. ' ' 

The  man  on  horseback  kept  ten  feet  between 
them  and  smelled  continually  at  his  silver  box,  but 
for  the  rest  was  willing  to  stay  and  talk.  "That 
seems  to  be  it.  The  soldier  will  run  from  the  pest, 
but  face  a  cannon  mouth.  The  sailor  rocks  upon  a 
masthead  or  boards  a  Spanish  galleon  with  a  cutlass 
between  his  teeth,  but  a  churchyard  ghost  turns 
him  into  a  whimpering  child!  Your  thinker  will 
scale  Olympus  and  enquire  of  Jove  direct,  but  the 
sight  of  torn  flesh  turns  him  pale.  To  each  his  cour- 
age and  each  his  fear!  Each  a  master  and  each  a 
slave." 

"  Aye,"  said  Aderhold  briefly,  "  I  know  that  well." 
He  put  his  hand  upon  the  door  behind  him.  "  I  must 
not  stay." 

The  other  gathered  up  the  reins.  "  I  am  dwelling 
at  the  castle.  When  the  plague  is  spent,  and  the  air 
again  is  clean  and  sweet,  and  old  clothing  has  been 
burned  and  new  put  on,  then,  before  you  travel 
farther,  come  to  see  me  there.  —  I  have  faced  can- 
non and  fought  a  galleon.  I  would  go  far  to  have 
speech  with  an  authentic  ghost.  A  brazen  head 

140 


THE  PLAGUE 

would  like  me  well,  and  I  am  constantly  consider- 
ing new  Daedalus'  wings.  But  to  enter  that  house 
behind  you,  and  stand  over  that  swollen,  ghastly, 
loathsomely  smelling  and  moaning  thing  —  no,  no ! 
There  I  am  your  abject  Eastern  slave." 

He  backed  his  horse  farther  from  the  house. 

"  Ah,"  said  Aderhold,  "  I,  too,  have  a  great  region 
where  Fear  is  my  master  and  sets  his  foot  upon  my 
neck!  I  will  enter  this  house,  but  I  make  no  talk  of 
Daedalus'  wings  —  seeing  that  the  neighbours  like 
it  not,  and  that  they  have  the  whip-hand !  —  When 
all's  well  I'll  come  to  the  castle." 

The  one  rode  away,  the  other  entered  the  plague- 
touched  house.  The  first,  returning  home,  found 
company,  come  from  the  southward,  and  so  reaching 
the  castle  without  passing  through  the  town.  An 
old  nobleman,  father  of  the  countess,  was  here,  come 
unexpectedly  from  the  Court,  and  having  no  knowl- 
edge of  the  family  flitting.  Now  he  was  in  an  ill- 
humour,  indeed,  and  yet  not  very  fearful  of  the 
plague,  and  set  upon  resting  his  old  bones  before  he 
pursued  his  further  journey.  Mistress  Borrow,  the 
housekeeper,  promised  to  make  him  comfortable  — 
there  were  servants  enough  —  "And  your  Lordship 
will  be  glad  to  know  that  Sir  Richard  is  here."  With 
his  lordship  was  a  London  physician  of  note,  one  that 
had  sometimes  been  called  to  the  old  Queen.  For 
years  he  had  doctored  his  lordship;  now,  at  special 
invitation,  he  was  making  this  journey  with  him. 

That  evening  at  supper  the  talk  was  almost  solely 
141 


THE  WITCH 

of  the  plague.  The  physician  had  had  experience  in 
London;  he  had  written  learnedly  upon  the  subject, 
and  was  reckoned  an  authority.  He  talked  of  pre- 
ventives and  plague-waters,  and  hoped  that  while, 
for  his  lordship's  sake,  he  should  not  think  of 
closely  exposing  himself,  he  might  yet,  with  proper 
precautions,  descend  into  the  town  and  observe  the 
general  appearance  of  matters.  He  would  be  glad  to 
give  to  the  authorities  or  to  the  physicians  in  the 
place  any  advice  in  his  power,  —  and  then  he  fell  to 
the  capon,  the  venison  pasty,  and  the  canary.  The 
old  nobleman  asked  Sir  Richard  how  he  should  get 
word  to  William  Carthew,  living  beyond  Hawthorn 
Village,  of  his  presence  at  the  castle.  It  seemed  that 
there  was  some  tie  of  old  service  a  generation  agone, 
—  Carthew's  father  had  owed  a  captaincy  and  other 
favours  to  the  nobleman,  —  and  now  that  he  was 
dead  the  present  squire  and  justice  always  came 
dutifully  to  see  the  great  man  upon  the  occasions 
when  he  was  at  the  castle.  "They  tell  me  that  he 
hath  turned  Puritan  —  or  rather  that  his  younger 
brother  hath  turned  Puritan  and  draggeth  William 
with  him.  A  pack  of  crop-eared  wretches !  I  should 
have  thought  better  of  John  Carthew's  son.  I  wish 
to  see  him  just  to  tell  him  so/ 

"One  of  the  grooms  shall  be  sent  to  Hawthorn 
to-morrow  morning,  sir.  If  your  man  be  afraid  of 
infection  he  may  ride  around  the  town  and  come  in 
from  this  side." 

But  the  Carthews  —  for  both  brothers  would  ride 
142 


THE  PLAGUE 

from  Hawthorn  to  the  castle  —  were  not  afraid  of 
infection.  The  older  was  unimaginative.  As  long  as 
you  did  not  touch  nor  go  too  near,  you  were  safe 
enough.  The  younger  brooded  on  other  things,  and 
was  sincerely  careless  of  any  danger  riding  through 
the  town  might  present.  Neither  was  averse  to  see- 
ing how  the  stricken  place  might  look.  The  younger, 
who,  truly,  greatly  influenced  his  brother,  came  with 
him  primarily  that  he  might  be  at  hand  if  the  castle, 
which  was  prelatical,  opened  upon  religion. 

It  opened,  but  only  in  the  person  of  the  old  noble- 
man. Sir  Richard  sat  a  little  to  one  side  in  the  great 
hall  where  the  armour  hung  and  listened  as  to  three 
actors  in  the  same  play.  The  physician  standing  by 
the  fire  faintly  shrugged  his  shoulders.  The  noble- 
man ridiculed  and  vituperated,  the  younger  Puritan 
— •  for  the  elder  was  no  match  for  his  lordship  — 
came  back  with  verse  and  Scripture.  Finally  the 
first  was  reduced  to  "  Insolent! "  and  a  fine,  foaming; 
rage.  Squire  Carthew  plucked  his  brother's  sleeve. 
"No,  no,  Harry!  Don't  go  so  far  — " 

The  younger  Carthew  made  a  stiff  bow  to  his 
lordship  and  stood  silent.  He  had  answered,  he 
knew,  boldly  and  well,  and  it  was  much  to  him  now 
to  answer  well  and  know  it,  to  feel  that  he  had  been 
God  Almighty's  able  champion.  In  subtle  ways  it 
tended  to  balance  matters.  It  eased  the  sore  and 
fearful  feeling  within,  the  anguished  sensation  that 
he  was  slipping,  slipping,  that  the  hand  of  Grace 
was  trembling  beneath  him.  .  .  . 

143 


THE  WITCH 

The  quarrel  was  too  deep  for  any  reconciliation. 
The  old  nobleman  advanced  no  olive  branches. 
Instead,  with  a  "Fare  you  well,  gentlemen!  If  this 
goes  much  further  in  England  there'll  be  hangings 
and  beheadings ! "  he  rose  from  his  cushioned  chair 
and  stalked  from  the  hall.  Sir  Richard  offered  food 
and  canary,  but  the  two  Carthews  misliked  his  sua- 
vity, and  the  younger,  at  least,  meant  to  keep  no 
terms  of  any  kind.  They  refused  enter  tainment. 
They  must  needs  at  once  return  to  Hawthorn. 

"  As  you  please,  gentlemen!  — •  I  am  glad  to  know 
that  the  sickness  has  not  touched  your  neighbour- 
hood." 

The  physician  now  came  forward;  they  all  stood 
about  the  great  table  in  the  hall.  "You  are  lucky  if 
it  reaches  you  not,"  said  the  London  doctor.  "I 
understand  that  you  are  not  more  than  six  miles 
away.  But  in  great  cities  I  have  seen  it  skip  one 
parish  and  slay  its  hundreds  all  around.  For  some 
reason  the  folk  just  there  were  more  resistive." 

A  servant  entering  with  a  message  from  the  old 
nobleman,  he  turned  aside  to  receive  it. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  younger  Carthew  with  sternness, 
"the  plague  falls  where  God  would  have  it  fall,  and 
falls  not  where  he  is  willing  to  spare.  He  saith  to  his 
Angel,  'Smite  here!'  or  He  saith,  'Pass  me  by  this 
door!'  —  and  where  is  the  resistance  of  man  that 
you  prate  of?  As  well  might  the  worm  resist  the 
master  of  the  vineyard's  treading  foot!" 

Sir  Richard  looked  at  him  curiously.  "Of  course! 
144 


THE  PLAGUE 

of  course!  Poor  worm!"  There  fell  a  silence,  then 
the  last  speaker,  unthinkingly,  merely  to  make  talk 
to  the  great  door  before  which  stood  the  visitors' 
horses,  brought  forward  Aderhold's  presence  in  the 
town.  "  Hawthorn  hath  played  the  Samaritan  in 
one  person  —  though,  I  believe,  indeed,  that  he  lives 
beyond  the  village.  You  've  given  a  good  leech.  I 
saw  him  yesterday  morning  in  the  town,  going  from 
sick  to  sick." 

The  squire  spoke.  "  You  mean  one  Gilbert  Ader- 
hold?  Yes,  he  is  a  leech.  But  Hawthorn  sent  him 
not—" 

The  London  physician,  returning  at  the  moment, 
caught  the  name,  " Gilbert  Aderhold! — -What! 
I  've  wondered  more  than  once  what  became  of  the 
man  —  if,  indeed,  you  speak  of  the  same  — " 

"A  tall,  quiet  man,"  said  Sir  Richard.  "A 
thinker  who  has  travelled  — " 

"It  has  a  sound  of  him,"  said  the  physician.  He 
somewhat  despised  the  two  country  gentlemen,  so  he 
addressed  himself  exclusively  to  Sir  Richard.  As  to 
what  followed,  it  must  be  said  that  he  spoke  alike 
without  malice  and  without  forethought.  Indiffer- 
entist  himself,  dulled  by  personal  vanity  and  com- 
placence of  position,  and  with  a  knowledge  at  least  of 
the  tolerant-mindedness  of  the  person  to  whom  he 
spoke,  he  possibly  took  not  into  consciousness  at  all 
the  very  different  nature  of  the  two  who  might  be 
listening,  nor  realized  that  the  man  of  whom  he  spoke 
dwelled  in  their  bailiwick  and  not  in  the  town.  At 

145 


THE  WITCH 

any  rate,  he  spoke  on  with  vivacity.  "A  man  of 
abilities  who  should  have  risen  —  studied  in  Paris  — 

was  for  a  time  in  the  Duke  of 's  household. 

Then  what  must  he  do  but  grow  atheist  and  begin 
to  write  and  teach !  '  The  God  of  Isaac  and  Jacob, 
Isaac  and  Jacob's  idea  of  God.  God  the  vast  ab- 
straction, like  and  differing  with  all  times  and  peo- 
ples. The  Bible  not  writ  by  the  finger  of  God,  but 
a  book  of  Eastern  wisdom  with  much  that  is  gold, 
and  much  that  is  not.  —  No  Fall  of  Man  as  therein 
told.  —  Salvation  out  of  the  depths  of  yourself  and 
not  by  gift  of  another.  —  No  soul  can  be  bathed 
clean  by  another's  blood.'  —  His  book,"  said  the 
physician,  "was  burned  in  an  open  place  in  Paris  by 
the  common  hangman,  and  he  himself  lay  a  long 
while  in  prison  and  was  hardly  dealt  with,  nay,  just 
escaped  with  life  —  which  he  might  not  have  done 

but  for  the  Duke  of ,  who  got  him  forth  from 

France  with  a  letter  to  Sir  Robert  Cecil,  and  — 
seeing  that  I  had  brought  his  Grace  up  from  an  ill- 
ness which  he  had  when  he  was  in  England  —  one 
from  his  secretary  to  me.  But  naturally  neither  Sir 
Robert  nor  I  could  do  aught  — " 

Sir  Richard,  his  brow  clouded,  stopped  him  with  a 
gesture.  "  You  caught  my  interest  and  held  me  fast 
—  but  I  should  have  checked  you  at  once !  Now  — ' ' 
He  bit  his  lip,  his  brows  drawn  together  with  deep 
vexation. 

The  two  men  from  Hawthorn  were  standing  stone 
still.  In  the  elder's  face,  at  once  stolid  and  peremp- 

146 


THE  PLAGUE 

tory,  was  only  single-minded  amazement  and  wrath. 
What  was  this  that  Justice  Carthew  and  all  Haw- 
thorn had  been  harbouring?  A  Jesuit  spy  would 
have  been  bad  enough — -but  atheist!  —  But  the 
younger  was  more  complex,  and  in  him  a  number  of 
impulses  were  working.  He  left  it  to  the  elder  to 
speak,  who  did  so,  explosively.  "  Atheist  !  No  one 
hath  thought  well  of  the  man  of  late  —  but  athe- 
ist!—  I  will  promise  you,  doctor  —  I  will  promise 
you/Sir  Richard  — -" 

"Nay,"  said  Sir  Richard,  no  longer  with  suavity, 
"what  I  would  have  you  promise,  that  I  know  you 
will  not!"  He  shook  himself  like  a  great  dog. 
"Unhappy!" 

The  two  Carthews  rode  down  the  castle  hill  and 
through  the  town  where  people  went  dully  to  and 
fro  with  Fear  in  company.  There  rose  the  pungent 
smell  of  burning  wood,  a  church  bell  made  a  slow 
and  measured  clangour.  They  passed  between  tall, 
gloomy,  jutting  houses,  passed  the  prison  with  the 
stocks  and  pillory,  and  the  great  church  with  the 
sculptured  portal,  wound  down  to  the  river,  and 
crossed  the  arched  bridge.  Before  them  rolled  the 
yet  wintry  country.  Mounting  a  hill,  they  saw  on 
the  horizon  a  purple-grey  line  that  was  Hawthorn 
Forest. 

The  younger  Carthew  spoke.  "  It  comes  back  to 
me.  .  .  .  That  night  at  the  Rose  Tavern  when  he  so 
suddenly  appeared  beside  old  Hard  wick.  .  .  .  Mas- 
ter Anthony  Mull,  of  Sack  Hall,  who  was  travelling 

147 


THE  WITCH 

with  us,  appeared  to  recognize  him  and  flew  out 
against  him.  .  .  .  Wait  a  moment!  —  his  very  words 
will  come  back.  He  said  —  '  Black  sorcerer  and 
devil's  friend!'" 

That  afternoon  a  serving-man  brought  to  a 
house  at  the  foot  of  the  castle  hill  a  letter  to  be 
passed  on  by  a  safe  hand  to  the  physician  from 
Hawthorn.  It  came  into  Aderhold's  hand  as  dusk 
was  falling.  He  broke  the  seal  and  read  by  the  light 
of  one  of  the  street  fires.  The  letter  —  no  lengthy 
one  —  came  from  his  friend  of  the  hawk  and  the 
silver  box.  It  told  him  what  the  London  physician 
had  betrayed,  though  without  malice,  and  to  whom. 
It  argued  that  it  might  be  well  to  quit  as  quickly  as 
possible  this  part  of  the  country,  or  even  to  go  forth 
for  a  time  from  England.  It  offered  a  purse  and  a 
horse;  also,  if  it  were  wished  for,  a  letter  of  com- 
mendation to  the  captain  of  a  ship  then  lying  at 
anchor  at  the  nearest  port,  which  captain,  his  own 
vessel  being  for  longer  voyages,  would  get  him  pas- 
sage in  some  other  ship  touching  at  a  Dutch  port  — 
"Amsterdam  being  to-day  as  safe  as  any  place  for  a 
thinker  —  where  no  place  is  safe."  The  letter  ended 
with  "The  younger  Carthew  will  move,  no  fear! 
Then,  my  friend,  move  first."  —  An  answer  was  to 
be  left  at  the  house  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Aderhold  mechanically  folded  the  letter  and 
placed  it  in  the  breast  of  his  doubtlet.  The  fire  was 
burning  in  an  almost  deserted  street.  Beside  it  was 
a  bench  where  an  old  tender  of  fires  sat  at  times  and 

148 


THE  PLAGUE 

nodded  in  the  warmth.  He  was  not  here  now.  Ader- 
hold  moved  to  the  bench  and  sat  down.  He  sat 
leaning  forward,  his  hands  clasped  and  hanging,  his 
head  bowed.  After  a  time  he  sighed,  straightened 
himself,  and  turning  upon  the  bench  looked  about 
him.  It  was  a  gusty  twilight  with  now  and  again  a 
dash  of  rain.  He  looked  up  and  down  the  solemn 
street.  Some  of  the  houses  stood  dark,  those  who 
had  lived  in  them  dead  or  fled.  Behind  the  windows 
of  others  candles  burned  and  shadows  passed.  This 
house  he  knew  was  stricken,  and  this  and  that. 
Here  it  was  a  child,  here  a  young  man  or  woman, 
here  older  folk.  In  more  than  one  house  there  were 
many  cases,  a  whole  family  stricken.  ...  As  he  sat 
he  heard  the  first  cart  of  the  night  roll  into  the  street, 
and  a  distant,  toneless  cry,  "  Bring  out  your  dead ! " 

He  rose  and  stood  with  a  solemn  and  wide  gesture 
of  his  hands.  He  waited  a  moment  longer  by  the 
fire,  then  turned  and  went  from  this  street  into  the 
next,  where  there  lived  behind  his  shop  an  old  sta- 
tioner and  seller  of  books  with  whom  he  had  made 
acquaintance.  Here  he  begged  pen  and  ink  and 
paper,  and  when  he  had  them,  wrote,  at  no  great 
length,  an  answer  to  the  letter  in  his  doublet.  The 
next  morning  he  left  it  at  the  house  indicated, 
whence  in  due  time  it  was  taken  by  the  serving-man 
and  carried  to  Sir  Richard  at  the  castle.  The  letter 
spoke  of  strong  gratitude,  "but  it  befits  not  my 
calling  to  leave  the  town  now." 

The  days  lagged  by  in  the  stricken  place.  Then, 
149 


THE  WITCH 

suddenly,  the  black  finger  shot  out  again  and 
touched  a  house  beyond  the  midway  farm,  so  much 
nearer  than  it  to  Hawthorn  Village.  ...  A  week  of 
held  breath  and  the  finger  went  forward  again.  This 
time  it  touched  a  house  in  Hawthorn. 


CHAPTER  XII 
HERON'S  COTTAGE 

IT  was  early  spring  again,  and  on  the  fruit  trees  pale 
emerald  buds  of  yet  unfolded  leaves.  The  blackbirds 
came  in  flocks  to  the  ploughed  fields.  But  this  year 
there  were  many  fields  that  were  not  ploughed; 
dead  men  could  not  plough,  nor  those  who  had  been 
to  death's  door  and  were  coming  halting,  halting 
back. 

Joan  sat  in  her  kitchen,  on  a  low  stool  by  the 
hearth.  The  room  was  clean,  with  shafts  of  sunlight 
slanting  in.  But  her  wheel  was  pushed  back  into  a 
corner,  and  there  lacked  other  signs  of  industry. 
She  sat  still  and  listless,  bent  over,  her  cheek  rest- 
ing upon  her  knees,  and  with  her  forefinger  she  made 
idle  marks  and  letters  in  the  ashes.  The  fire  was 
smouldering  out,  the  place  seemed  deadly  still. 

There  came  a  knock  upon  the  door.  She  raised  her 
head,  and  sat  with  a  frozen  look,  listening.  After  a 
minute  the  knock  was  repeated.  Rising,  she  moved 
noiselessly  across  the  floor  to  the  window,  and,  stand- 
ing so  that  she  could  not  be  seen,  looked  out.  The 
rigour  passed  from  her  face;  she  drew  a  breath  of 
relief  and  went  and  opened  the  door. 

The  sunshine  flooded  in  and  in  the  midst  of  it 
stood  Aderhold.  He  looked  at  her  quietly  and 


THE  WITCH 

kindly.    "  I  came  again  but  to  see  if  you  were  well 
and  lacked  naught." 

11 1  lack  naught,  thank  you,  sir,"  said  Joan.  "  And 
I  am  well  —  O  me,  O  me,  I  would  that  it  had  taken 
me,  too!  O  father,  father!" 

She  leaned  against  the  wall,  shaken  with  dry  sobs. 
The  fit  did  not  last;  she  was  resolute  enough.  She 
straightened  herself.  "  I  've  done  what  you  told  me 
to.  Yesterday  I  washed  and  cleaned  and  let  the  sun 
in  everywhere,  and  burned  in  the  room  the  powder 
you  gave  me.  Everything  is  clean  —  and  lonely. 
No,  I  don't  feel  badly  anywhere.  I  feel  terribly 
strong,  as  though  I  would  live  to  be  an  old  woman. 
...  I  miss  father  —  I  miss  father!" 

"It  looks  so  clean  and  bright,"  said  Aderhold, 
"and  your  cat  purring  there  on  the  hearth.  Your 
father  went  very  quickly,  and  without  much  suffer- 
ing. His  presence  will  come  back  to  you,  and  you 
will  take  comfort  in  it.  You  will  feel  it  in  this 
room,  and  upon  this  doorstep,  and  out  here  among 
the  fruit  trees,  and  under  the  stars  at  night." 

"Aye,"  said  Joan,  "  I  think  it  too.  But  now  —  " 
She  stood  beside  him  on  the  doorstep,  looking  out 
past  the  budding  trees  to  the  gate  and  the  misty 
green  twisted  path  that  led  at  last  to  the  village 
road.  Overhead  drove  a  fleecy  drift  of  clouds  with 
islands  of  blue.  "All  last  night  the  countryside 
mourned  low  and  wailed.  It  was  the  wind,  but  I 
knew  it  was  the  other  too!  It  is  sad  for  miles  and 
miles  to  be  so  woeful." 

152 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

"The  sickness  is  greatly  lessening.  By  the  time 
the  spring  is  strongly  here  it  will  be  over  and  Haw- 
thorn beginning  to  forget.  —  You  have  been  here 
now  three  days  alone.  Has  no  one  come  to  enquire 
or  help?" 

"Mother  Spuraway  from  beyond  the  mill-race 
came.  No  one  else/' 

"In  a  time  like  this  all  fear  all.  But  presently 
friends  will  find  out  friends  again." 

"  It  is  not  that  way  that  I  am  lonely,"  said  Joan. 
"There  are  some  that  I  care  not  if  they  never 
come." 

He  had  his  round  to  go.  The  sickness  in  the  town 
dwindling,  he  had  come  back,  when  it  broke  over 
Hawthorn,  to  the  Oak  Grange.  Since  then  he  had 
gone  far  and  near,  wherever  it  struck  down  the 
poorer  sort.  As  he  turned  from  the  cottage  door, 
Joan  stepped,  too,  upon  the  flagged  path,  and  they 
moved  side  by  side  toward  the  gate,  between  the 
lines  of  green  lance- heads  the  daffodils  were  thrust- 
ing above  the  soil.  They  moved  in  silence,  almost  of 
a  height,  two  simply,  almost  poorly  dressed  figures, 
each  with  its  load  of  sorrow  and  care  for  the  morrow. 
And  yet  they  were  not  old,  and  about  them  was  the 
low  ecstatic  murmur  of  winter  swiftening  into  spring. 

"Do  you  remember,"  asked  Aderhold,  "that  day 
when  we  chanced  to  meet  in  the  forest  and  Master 
Harry  Carthew  came  upon  us?" 

"Aye,"  said  Joan,  "I  remember." 

"  Since  then  we  have  neither  met  nor  spoken  to- 
153 


THE  WITCH 

gether  until  last  week  when  your  father  was  stricken 
and  you  watched  for  me  coming  from  the  village.  — 
And  now  to-day  I  come  only  for  this  moment  and 
will  come  no  more.  —  Have  you  no  close  friends  nor 
kindred?'1 

"They  are  buried  with  father.  ...  I  mean  to  stay 
on  here  and  spin  flax  and  keep  myself.  And  if  — 
I  mean  to  stay."  Her  hand  went  out  to  touch  the 
eglantine  growing  by  the  beehives.  "  I  love  it  and  I 
mean  to  stay." 

Aderhold  looked  beyond  at  the  wavy  green  path 
and  the  massed  trees  of  the  forest.  He,  too,  loved 
this  country.  He  had  thought  much  here  —  once 
or  twice  the  light  had  shone  through.  But  he  was 
ready  now  to  go.  Just  as  soon  as  there  was  no  more 
sick,  just  as  soon  as  the  plague  was  gone,  he  meant  to 
steal  from  the  Oak  Grange  and  Hawthorn  country- 
side. He  and  Joan  came  to  the  little  gate,  and  he 
went  out  of  it,  then  turning  for  a  moment  looked 
back  at  the  thatched  cottage,  the  pleasant  beehives, 
the  fruit  trees  that  ere  long  would  put  forth  a  mist  of 
bloom.  Joan  stood  with  a  sorrowful  face,  but  grey- 
eyed,  vital.  Her  hand  rested  upon  the  worn  wood. 
He  laid  his  own  upon  it,  lightly,  for  one  moment. 
"Good-bye,"  he  said,  "Mistress  Friendly-Soul!" 

She  stood  in  the  pale  sunshine  until  he  was  gone 
from  sight,  then  turned  and  went  back  to  her 
kitchen.  She  must  bake  bread ;  there  was  nothing  for 
her  to  eat  in  the  cottage.  She  must  get  water  from 
the  well.  She  took  her  well-bucket,  went  forth  and 

154 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

brought  it  back  brimming.  From  the  faggot  pile  she 
fed  the  fire,  then  brought  to  the  table  coarse  flour 
and  other  matters  for  the  bread,  mixed  and  worked, 
moulded  and  set  to  bake.  And  all  the  time  she  tried 
to  feel  that  her  father  was  sitting  there,  in  the  settle 
corner.  She  made  the  table  clear  again,  then  looked 
at  her  wheel.  But  she  did  not  feel  like  spinning;  her 
heart  was  burdened  again ;  she  sat  down  on  the  stool 
by  the  fire  and  bowed  her  head  in  her  arms.  "Day 
after  day  and  day  after  day,"  she  said;  "day  after 
day  and  day  after  day."  She  rocked  herself.  "And 
a  powerful  man  that  I  hate  to  come  again  and  yet 
again  to  trouble  me,  and  father  not  here.  ...  Day 
after  day  and  day  after  day.  .  .  .  And  I  know  not 
why  it  is,  but  I  have  no  friends.  They've  turned 
against  me,  and  I  know  not  why.  .  .  .  Day  after  day 
— "  She  sat  with  buried  head  and  rocked  herself 
slowly  to  and  fro.  Save  for  the  youth  in  her  form 
and  the  thick,  pale  bronze  of  her  braided  hair,  she 
might  have  seemed  Mother  Spuraway,  or  Marget 
Primrose,  or  any  other  old  and  desolate  woman. 
She  rocked  herself,  and  the  faggot  burned  apart,  and 
the  cat  stretched  itself  in  the  warmth. 

From  outside  the  cottage  came  a  thin  calling. 
"Joan!  Joan!  Oh,  Joan!" 

Joan  lifted  her  head,  listened  a  moment,  then  rose 
and  opened  the  door.  "Joan!  Joan!  Oh,  Joan!" 
She  stepped  without  and  saw  who  it  was,  — •  Alison 
Inch  and  Cecily  Lukin  calling  to  her  from  the  green 
path  well  beyond  the  gate.  They  would  come  at 

155 


THE  WITCH 

first  no  nearer.  The  plague  had  struck  in  the  Lukin 
cottage  no  less  than  in  Heron's,  and  for  weeks  it  had 
closely  neighboured  Alison  Inch  and  her  mother. 
But  Joan  must  be  made  to  feel  comrades'  terror  of 
her.  "Joan!  Joan!  Have  you  got  it  yet?  —  We 
want  but  to  see  if  you're  living!" 

With  a  gesture  of  anger  Joan  turned  to  reenter 
the  cottage. 

But  Alison  did  not  wish  that.  "  Joan!  Joan!  We 
were  laughing.  We're  not  afraid  if  you  don't  come 
very  close.  —  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  See! 
I'm  not  afraid." 

Alison  came  to  the  gate,  Cecily  with  her.  Joan  no 
longer  liked  Alison,  and  with  Cecily  she  had  never 
had  much  acquaintance.  But  they  were  women  and 
young,  and  the  loneliness  was  terrible  about  her. 
She  went  halfway  up  the  path  toward  them.  The 
grey  and  white  cat  came  from  the  cottage  and  fol- 
lowed her. 

Alison  regarded  her  with  a  thin,  flushed,  shrewish 
face  and  an  expression  lifted,  enlarged,  and  dark- 
ened beyond  what  might  have  seemed  possible  to 
her  nature.  But  Alison  had  drunk  deep  from  an  acrid 
spring  that  drew  in  turn  from  a  deep,  perpetual 
fount.  She  spoke  in  a  thin  and  cutting  voice. 
"Watching  and  weeping  haven't  taken  the  rose 
away.  —  What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  Joan?  " 

"  I  do  not  think,"  said  Joan,  "that  it  is  necessary 
to  tell  thee."  She  looked  past  her  to  Cecily.  "They 
say  your  sister  died.  I  am  sorry." 

156 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

But  Alison  had  put  poison  into  Cecily's  mind. 
"  Yes,  she  died.  They  do  say  that  you  would  not  be 
sorry  if  more  of  us  died,  Why  people  like  you  and  — 
and  Mother  Spur  away  should  wish  harm  to  us 
others — " 

"What  are  you  talking  of?"  said  Joan.  "I  wish 
no  harm  to  any  — " 

Cecily  was  an  impish  small  piece  with  no  especial 
evil  in  her  save  a  teasing  devil.  "Oh,  they  say  that 
you  and  a  black  man  understand  each  other!  Some 
boys  told  me  — " 

"Nay,  that's  naught,  Cis!"  said  Alison  impa- 
tiently. She  came  closer  to  the  gate,  and  Joan,  as 
though  drawn  against  her  will,  approached  from  her 
side.  "Joan  —  nay,  don't  come  any  nearer,  Joan — " 

"Yes?" 

"There's  one  ill  at  the  squire's  house.  Ah!"  cried 
Alison.  "  Do  you  look  joyful?  " 

"  No  —  no ! "  stammered  Joan. 

Taken  by  surprise,  shaken^and  unstable  as  she  was 
to-day,  she  gave  back  a  step,  lifted  her  hands  to  her 
forehead.  As  for  Alison  —  Alison  had  not  expected 
Joan  to  look  joyful.  She  had  spoken,  burning  her 
own  heart,  to  make  Joan  feel  the  hot  iron,  knowing 
that  the  pang  she  gave  would  not  be  lasting,  for 
truly  it  was  but  one  of  the  maidservants  at  the  great 
house  that  was  stricken  and  not  that  person  of  over- 
shadowing importance.  She  had  believed  with  all 
her  heart  that  it  would  smite  Joan  to  the  heart  until 
she  told  her  true  —  and  now  there  had  been  in  her 

157 


THE  WITCH 

face  an  awful  joy,  though  at  once  it  had  shrunk  back 
and  something  piteous  had  come  instead.  But  it  was 
the  first  look  with  which  Alison  was  concerned. 
There  went  through  her  a  keen  hope  like  a  knife- 
blade.  Perhaps  he  no  longer  liked  Joan !  —  perhaps 
that  made  Joan  angry,  hurting  her  vanity  —  so, 
perhaps  she  would  have  liked  to  hear  that  he  was 
sick  of  the  plague!  Alison  stood  astare,  revolving 
Joan's  look. 

Cecily,  who  had  never  come  before  so  close  to 
Heron's  cottage,  gazed  about  her.  "And  Katherine 
Scott  says  there's  something  'no  canny'  about  the 
bees  in  your  beehives.  She  says  she  had  them  while 
you  were  away  to  the  castle,  and  they  did  naught 
for  her  and  made,  besides,  her  own  bees  idle  and  sick. 
But  she  says  they  make  honey  for  you,  great  combs 
of  it—  " 

"There  is  none  that  is  sick  at  the  squire's  house," 
said  Alison  in  a  strange  voice,  "but  Agnes,  Madam 
Carthew's  woman.  They've  taken  her  from  the 
house  and  put  her  in  a  room  by  the  stable,  and  the 
family  goes  freely  forth.  —  Why  did  you  look  as  you 
were  glad,  Joan?" 

"If  I  did,  God  forgive  me!"  said  Joan.  "In  the 
deep  of  me  there  is  no  ill-wishing.  —  Presently,  the 
leech  says,  it  will  be  all  safe  here,  as,  indeed,  it's 
clean  and  sun-washed  and  safe  to-day.  Then  I  hope 
you'll  both  come  to  see  me  — " 

Cecily  gave  a  gibing,  elfin  laugh.  "Are  you  going 
to  live  here  all  alone  —  like  a  witch?" 

158 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

The  grey  and  white  cat  had  advanced  beyond 
Joan  and  now  stood  upon  the  sunny  path  between 
the  daffodil  points.  What  happened  none  of  the 
three  saw;  perhaps  a  dog  crossed  the  track  behind 
the  two  visitors,  perhaps  the  creature  recognized 
human  hostility  —  be  that  as  it  may,  the  cat  sud- 
denly arched  its  back,  its  'hair  rose,  its  mouth 
opened. 

"Ah-h!"  cried  Cecily.   "Look  at  her  cat!" 

A  curious  inspiration,  not  of  light,  passed  like  a 
cloud-shadow  over  Alison's  face.  "It  doesn't  like 
what  you  said,  Cis!  It's  her  familiar. —  Come 
away!  We'd  best  be  going." 

They  turned.  Lightning  came  against  them  from 
Joan's  grey  eyes.  "Yes,  go!  And  come  not  here 
again !  Do  you  hear?  —  Come  not  here  again ! ' '  Her 
voice  followed  them  up  the  green  path.  "  Come  not 
here  again  — ' 

The  next  day  she  went  to  get  wood  from  the  edge 
of  the  forest.  She  had  gathered  her  load  of  faggots, 
and  was  sitting  upon  them,  resting,  in  her  hand  a 
fallen  bird's  nest,  when  Will  the  smith's  son  hap- 
pened that  way.  The  two  had  known  each  other  to 
speak  to  in  a  friendly  way  for  many  a  year;  it  used 
to  be  that,  coming  or  going  from  the  Grange,  he 
might  at  any  time  stop  for  a  minute  before  the  cot- 
tage for  a  crack  with  old  Heron  and  maybe  with 
Joan  herself.  That  time  had  come  to  an  end  with 
Joan  and  her  father's  going  to  the  castle ;  when  they 
came  back  he  had  been,  as  it  were,  afraid  of  new 

159 


THE  WITCH 

graces  and  manners.  Moreover,  old  Master  Hard- 
wick  had  presently  died,  and  so  Will  left  the  em- 
ployment of  the  Grange  and  had  little  need  any 
more  to  come  and  go  by  Hawthorn  Forest.  It 
might  be  that,  save  at  church,  they  had  not  seen 
each  other  for  months.  Moreover,  he  had  been  away 
to  the  nearest  port. 

Now  he  greeted  her  with  friendliness  and  an 
honest-awkward  speech  of  sorrow  for  old  Heron's 
death.  "He  was  a  good  man  and,  fegs!  so  learned! 
—  Am  sorry  for  thee,  Joan.  And  what  will't  do 
now?" 

Joan  turned  the  grey  and  empty  nest  in  her 
hands.  "I  do  not  know/'  she  said  drearily;  then, 
with  a  backward  fling  of  her  shoulders  and  a  lift  of 
courage,  "The  cottage's  mine.  And  I  always  sell 
the  flax  I  spin.  I'll  bide  and  spin  and  keep  the 
place." 

Will  shook  his  head  compassionately.  "A  lass 
like  thou  — !  In  no  time  thou'dst  be  talked  of  and 
called  ill  names.  Either  thou  must  take  service  or 
marry  — " 

Joan  turned  upon  him  heavy-lidded  grey  orbs. 
"Why  should  I  marry  or  be  a  serving-woman  if  I 
wish  neither,  and  can  keep  myself?  —  Oh,  I  like  not 
the  way  we've  made  this  world!"  She  turned  the 
nest  again.  "This  thing  of  ill  names  —  Well,  ill 
names  do  not  kill." 

Will  stood,  biting  a  piece  of  thorn.  "You'd  see 
how  it  would  turn  out.  No  one  would  believe — " 

160 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

He  looked  at  her  with  rustic  meditativeness.  He 
was  slow  and  country-living;  he  had  no  great  ac- 
quaintance with  Alison  or  Cecily,  and  it  had  never 
occurred  to  him  to  mark  Master  Harry  Carthew, 
where  the  squire's  brother  rode  or  whom  his  looks 
pursued.  He  had  heard  of  the  vintner  in  the  town, 
and  had  dimly  supposed  that  Joan  would  marry 
him,  or  maybe  the  new  huntsman  or  some  other 
fine-feathered  person  at  the  castle.  But  now  the 
plague  had  swept  the  town,  and  the  vintner  might 
be  of  those  taken  —  and  here  was  old  Heron  gone. 
He  looked  at  her  again,  and  the  hand  that  held  the 
piece  of  thorn  against  his  lips  began  to  shake  a  little. 
It  occurred  to  him  more  strongly  than  it  had  done 
before  that  she  was  a  fair  woman  —  and  then, 
Heron's  cottage.  There  was  a  tiny  plot  of  ground, 
the  cow,  some  poultry.  As  things  went,  she  had  a 
good  dowry.  Will  the  smith's  son  might  go  farther 
and  fare  worse.  It  was  not  the  right  time,  all  Haw- 
thorn being  so  gloomy  and  everybody  afraid,  and 
his  own  heart  knocking  at  times  against  his  side  with 
fear.  But  it  would  n't  hurt  just  to  drop  a  hint.  He 
moistened  his  lips.  "Joan,"  he  said;  "Joan  — " 

And  then,  by  the  perversity  of  her  fortune,  Joan 
herself  shook  him  from  this  base.  She  lifted  sombre 
eyes,  still  turning  the  little  grey  nest  about  in  her 
hands.  "Why  do  you  think  we  had  the  plague? 
The  minister  preached  that  it  was  sent  against  the 
town  for  its  false  doctrine,  and  we  gave  thanks  that 
we  were  not  as  the  town.  .  .  .  And  then  in  a  little 

161 


THE  WITCH 

while  it  was  upon  us,  and  my  father,  who  was  a  good 
man,  took  it  and  died.  ..." 

Gloom  that  had  lifted  this  bright  afternoon  on  the 
forest  edge  settled  again.  Will  the  smith's  son  had  a 
strong  taste  for  the  supernatural,  all  the  emotional 
in  him  finding  that  vent.  It  could  grow  to  light  up 
with  strange  lightnings  and  transform  every  hum- 
drum corner  of  his  mind.  He  liked  to  discuss  these 
matters  and  feel  a  wind  of  terror  prick  his  temples 
cold.  He  spoke  oracularly,  having,  indeed,  listened 
to  talk  at  the  sexton's  the  night  before.  "There 's  al- 
ways an  Evil  Agent  behind  any  pest,  or  a  comet  or 
a  storm  that  wrecks  ships  or  blows  down  chimneys. 
At  times  God  uses  the  Evil  Agent  to  punish  the  pre- 
sumptuous with  —  as  He  might  give  Satan  leave  to 
spot  with  plague  the  town  over  yonder,  seeing  that 
if  it  could  it  would  have  the  old  mass-priests  back! 
And  at  other  times  He  gives  the  Evil  Agent  leave  to 
prick  and  try  his  chosen  people  that  they  may  turn 
like  a  wauling  babe  and  cling  the  closer  to  Him. 
And  again  there  may  be  one  patch  of  weed  in  the 
good  corn  and  Satan  couching  and  holding  his  Sab- 
bat there.  In  which  case  God  will  send  plagues  of 
Egypt,  one  after  the  other,  until  every  soul  wearing 
the  Devil's  livery  is  haled  forth.  —  Now,"  said  Will, 
and  he  laid  it  off  with  the  sprig  of  thorn,  "Hawthorn 
is  for  the  pure  faith  of  the  Holy  Scriptures,  so  we 
have  n't  the  plague  for  the  reason  the  town  hath  it. 
—  Again,  put  case  that  so  we  're  to  love  the  Lord  the 
more.  Now  Hawthorn  and  all  to  the  north  of  it  is 

162 


HERON'S  COTTAGE 

known  for  religion.  I  've  been  a  traveller,"  said  Will 
with  unction,  "and  I  know  how  we're  looked  on, 
clear  from  here  to  the  sea,  and  held  up  to  the  un- 
godly 1  Master  Clement's  got  a  name  that  sounds  to 
the  wicked  like  the  trump  of  doom  and  Master 
Harry  Carthew  is  n't  far  behind  him  —  What  did 
you  say?" 

"I  said  naught,"  said  Joan. 

Will  closed  his  exposition.  "Now  it  may  be  that 
God  wisheth  to  prick  up  Hawthorn  to  fresh  zeal, 
and,  indeed,  the  sexton  holds  that  it  is  so  that  Mas- 
ter Clement  interprets  the  matter.  But  it  seemed  to 
me  and  the  tinker,  who  was  there  talking,  too,  that 
the  third  case  is  the  likelier  and  that  there  are  some 
ill  folk  among  us!"  Will  dropped  the  bit  of  thorn. 
"  It 's  the  more  likely  because  there 's  another  kind  of 
mischief  going  around  and  growing  as  the  plague 
dies  off.  I  know  myself  of  three  plough-horses  gone 
lame  in  one  night,  and  Hodgson's  cow  dying  without 
rhyme  or  reason,  and  a  child  at  North- End  Farm 
falling  into  fits  and  talking  of  a  dog  that  runs  in  and 
out  of  the  room,  but  no  one  else  can  see  it.  The 
tinker"  —  Will  spoke  with  energy  —  "the  tinker 
has  come  not  long  since  over  the  border  from  Scot- 
land. He  says  that  if  Hawthorn  was  Scotland  we'd 
have  had  old  Mother  Spuraway  and  maybe  others 
in  the  pennywinkis  and  the  caschielawis  before 
this!" 

Joan  rose  and  lifted  her  bundle  of  faggots  to  her 
shoulders.  The  grey  bird-nest  she  set  between  two 

163 


THE  WITCH 

boughs  of  the  thorn  tree.  "What  are  the  penny- 
winkis  and  the  caschielawis?" 

"The  one's  your  thumbscrew,"  said  Will,  "and 
the  other 's  a  hollow  iron  case  where  they  set  your 
leg  and  build  a  fire  beneath." 

Joan  turned  her  face  toward  the  cottage.  Her  old 
acquaintance  walked  beside  her.  It  was  afternoon 
and  there  was  over  everything  a  tender,  flickering, 
charming  light.  It  made  the  new  grass  emerald,  of 
the  misting  trees  veil  on  veil  of  soft,  smiling  magic. 
Primroses  and  violets  bloomed  as  though  dropped 
from  immortal  hands.  The  blue  vault  of  air  rose 
height  on  height  and  so  serene  and  kind.  .  .  . 

Joan  spoke  in  a  smothered  voice.  "I  would 
believe  in  a  good  God." 

The  young  countryman  beside  her  had  gone  on  in 
mind  with  the  tinker  and  his  talk.  "What  did  you 
say,  Joan?" 

"I  said  naught,"  said  Joan. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HAWTHORN   CHURCH 

TOWN  and  village  and  all  the  country  roundabout 
were  growing  clean  of  the  plague.  Day  by  day  the 
evil  lessened,  the  sickness  stole  away.  It  left  its 
graves,  and  among  those  whose  loss  was  personal 
its  mood  of  grief.  At  large  there  was  still  a  kind  of 
sullen  fear,  a  tension  of  the  nerves,  a  readiness  to 
attend  to  any  cry  of  ' '  Wolf ! ' '  The  wolf  might  come 
no  more  in  the  guise  of  the  plague,  but  there  were 
other  damages  and  terrors.  All  Hawthorn  region 
was  in  a  mood  to  discover  them. 

It  came  Sunday.  The  danger,  at  least,  of  con- 
gregating together  seemed  to  have  rolled  away. 
Comfort  remained,  comfort  of  the  crowd,  of  feel- 
ing people  warm  about  you,  gloomy  comfort  of 
" Eh,  sirs!"  and  shakings  of  the  head.  Hawthorn, 
village  and  neighbourhood,  flocked  to  church.  Go- 
ing, the  people  drew  into  clusters.  The  North-End 
Farm  folk  had  a  large  cluster,  and  there  the  shak- 
ing of  the  head  was  over  the  possessed  boy.  But 
the  widow  whose  cow  was  dead  and  the  waggoner 
whose  horses  were  lamed  had  their  groups,  too,  and 
the  largest  group  of  all  came  compactly  from  the 
lower  end  of  the  village,  past  the  green  and  the 
pond  and  the  stocks  and  the  Sabbath-closed  ale- 

165 


THE  WITCH 

house,  with  the  tinker  from  Scotland  talking  in  the 
midst  of  it. 

Dark  stone,  gaunt  and  ancient,  rather  small  than 
large,  Hawthorn  Church  rose  among  yew  trees. 
Within  was  barer  than  without.  What  of  antique 
carving  could  be  broken  away  was  broken  away, 
what  could  be  whitewashed  was  whitewashed,  what 
of  austerity  could  be  injected  was  injected.  The 
Act  of  Uniformity  loomed  over  England  like  a 
writing  in  the  sky ;  there  must  be  and  was  use  of  the 
book  of  Common  Prayer.  But  parishes  minded 
like  Hawthorn  used  it  with  all  possible  reserves. 
Where  matters  could  be  pared  they  were  pared  to 
the  quick;  all  exfoliation  was  done  away  with.  As 
far  as  was  possible  in  an  England  where  Presbyter- 
ianism  yet  sat  in  the  shadow  of  the  Star  Chamber 
and  the  Independents  had  not  arisen,  idolatrousness 
was  excluded.  Only  the  sermon  was  not  pared. 
Sunday  by  Sunday  minister  and  people  indemnified 
themselves  with  the  sermon.  —  You  could  not  speak 
against  the  King ;  except  in  metaphor  you  could  not 
speak  against  the  Apostolic  Succession ;  there  were  a 
number  of  things  you  could  not  speak  against  unless 
you  wished  to  face  gaol  or  pillory  or  worse.  Be- 
cause of  this  the  things  that  you  could  speak  against 
were  handled  with  an  added  violence.  The  common 
outer  foe  received  the  cudgellings  you  could  not  be- 
stow within  the  house.  The  Devil  was  mightily  dealt 
with  in  pulpits  such  as  this  of  Hawthorn,  the  Devil 
and  his  ministers.  The  Devil  was  invisible;  even  the 

166 


HAWTHORN  CHURCH 

most  materializing  mind  did  not  often  get  a  glimpse 
of  him,  though  such  a  thing  was  possible  and  had  of 
course  happened :  witness  Martin  Luther  and  others. 
But  his  ministers  —  his  ministers !  They  were  many 
and  palpable.  .  .  . 

Hawthorn  Church  was  filled.  They  sat  very  still, 
men  and  women  and  children.  They  were  peasants 
and  yeomen,  small  tradespeople,  a  very  few  of  the 
clerkly  caste,  one  or  two  families  of  gentry.  The 
only  great  enclosed  pew  was  that  belonging  by  pre- 
scription to  Carthew  House.  The  squire,  the  squire's 
wife,  his  young  son,  and  the  squire's  brother  sat 
there,  where  the  force  of  the  sermon  could  reach 
them  first.  Quite  at  the  back  of  the  church  sat  Gil- 
bert Aderhold,  a  quiet,  dark  figure  beside  an  old, 
smocked  farmer.  Joan  sat  where  she  had  been 
wont  to  sit  with  her  father,  halfway  down  the 
church,  just  in  front  of  Alison  Inch  and  her  mother. 
It  was  a  dark  day,  the  air  hot,  heavy,  and  oppres- 
sive, drawing  to  a  storm. 

Master  Thomas  Clement  came  into  the  pulpit 
wearing  a  black  gown.  He  opened  his  Geneva  Bible 
and  laid  it  straight  before  him.  He  turned  the  hour- 
glass, then  lifting  his  hands  to  the  lowering  sky  he 
smote  them  together,  and  in  a  loud,  solemn  and 
echoing  voice  read  from  the  book  before  him,  "If 
there  arise  among  you  a  prophet  or  a  dreamer  of 
dreams,  and  giveth  thee  a  sign  or  a  wonder.  And  the 
sign  or  the  wonder  come  to  pass  whereof  he  spake  to 
ihee,  saying,  Let  us  go  after  other  gods,  that  thou  hast 

167 


THE  WITCH 

not  known,  and  let  us  serve  them.  .  .  .  That  prophet  or 
that  dreamer  of  dreams  shall  be  put  to  death;  because  he 
hath  spoken  to  turn  you  away  from  the  Lord  your  God. 
.  .  .  And  all  Israel  shall  hear  and  fear  and  shall  do  no 
more  any  such  wickedness  as  this  is  among  you.  ..." 

"...  There  shall  not  be  found  among  you  any  one 
that  .  .  .  useth  divination,  or  an  observer  of  times,  or  an 
enchanter,  or  a  witch,  or  a  consulter  with  familiar 
spirits,  or  a  wizard,  or  a  necromancer.1' 

He  ceased  to  read,  and  with  another  gesture  of 
his  long,  thin  hands,  began  to  preach.  He  had  a 
peculiar  power  and  calibre  had  Master  Thomas 
Clement.  He  stood  in  his  black  gown,  a  small  man 
with  a  pale  face ;  then  his  dire  vision  came  upon  him 
and  it  was  as  though  his  form  gained  height  and 
dilated.  He  burned  like  a  flame,  a  wind-tossed  flame, 
burning  blue.  When  he  spoke  his  words  came  with  a 
rushing  weight.  His  figure  bent  toward  the  people, 
his  lean  hands  quivered  above  his  head,  gesturing 
against  the  dark  concave  of  the  roof.  The  roof 
might  have  been  an  open,  stormy  sky,  the  pulpit  a 
rock  upon  some  plain  of  assemblage,  the  preacher  a 
gaunt,  half-clad  Israelite  shrilling  out  to  the  Hebrew 
multitude  the  rede  of  their  lawgivers.  Thou  shall  not 
suffer  doubt  to  live !  Thou  shall  endure  no  speech  of 
more  or  other  paths  than  this  one.  He  that  differ eth,  he 
shall  die  ! 

But  it  was  not  Sinai  and  some  thousands  of  years 
ago  and  an  Asiatic  tribe  struggling  back  from  Egypt 
to  some  freehold  of  its  own,  or  Asiatic  lawgivers 

168 


HAWTHORN  CHURCH 

building  a  careful  theocracy.  It  was  Europe,  —  it 
was  England  and  the  seventeenth  century,  —  and 
still  men  like  this  stood  in  fiery  sincerity  and  became 
mouthpieces  for  that  people  and  its  history  and  its 
laws.  The  order  to  Judah  and  Simeon  and  Levi 
rolled  through  the  ages  like  never-cooling  lava,  with- 
ering and  whelming  vineyards  of  thought.  Thou 
shall  not  suffer  doubt  to  live.  He  thai  differeth,  he  shall 
die!  —  And  a  thousand  thousand  pale  shapes  might 
rise  to  the  inner  eye  and  speak  to  the  inner  ear. 
"We  died." 

Aderhold  sat  still,  far  back  in  Hawthorn  Church. 
In  his  own  mind  he  saw  that  he  was  on  the  edge 
of  the  abyss.  He  doubted  much  if  he  would  escape. 
.  .  .  The  old  farmer  sitting,  blue-smocked,  beside 
him,  his  watery  eyes  fixed  upon  the  minister,  broke 
now  and  again  into  a  mutter  of  repetition  and  com- 
ment. "Aye,  aye!  The  misbeliever  to  perish  for 
idolatry.  ...  Of  course  he  blasphemes  —  the  mis- 
believer blasphemes.  .  .  .  Aye,  aye!  'Why/  and 
'  Wherefore,'  the  Devil's  own  syllables.  .  .  .  Aye, 
aye!  Unbelief  and  sorcery  go  together.  .  .  .  Aye, 
now  we  're  at  fire  in  this  world  and  everlasting,  last- 
ing fire  to  come!" 

The  preacher  had  before  him  a  people  who  had 
come  through  a  narrow  strait  and  a  valley  of  the 
shadow,  gathered  together  in  a  mood  of  strained 
nerves,  of  twitches  and  starts  aside,  of  a  readiness  to 
take  panic.  The  day  was  dark  with  heat  and  oppres- 
sion, a  sense  of  hush  before  tempest.  It  was  a  day  on 

169 


THE  WITCH 

which  it  was  easy  to  awaken  emotion.  The  faces  of 
the  people  showed  pale  in  the  dusk,  breathing  be- 
came laboured.  At  last  it  grew  that  men  and  women 
looked  aside  with  something  like  a  shudder  and  a 
sigh  in  the  dimness.  It  was  as  though  they  looked 
to  see  a  serpent's  head,  fanged  and  crowned,  lifting 
itself  in  the  gloom  from  monstrous  coils.  Aderhold 
saw  the  slow  turning  of  eyes  in  his  direction. 

He  thought  swiftly.  He  had  served  many  in  this 
congregation.  Since,  in  the  winter-time,  hiseyes  had 
been  opened,  he  knew  of  the  drifting  talk  of  his 
hoarding  gold,  of  his  practising  alchemy  there  in  the 
dark  Oak  Grange,  alchemy,  and  perhaps  worse. 
Even  after  his  return  from  the  plague-stricken  town, 
even  in  his  going  through  Hawthorn  countryside 
from  house  to  house  where  there  were  sick,  helping, 
serving,  even  then  he  had  seen  doubtful  looks,  had 
known  his  aid  taken  hurriedly,  as  it  were  secretly 
and  grudgingly.  But  all  had  not  done  so.  There  had 
been  those  too  simple  and  too  suffering  and  sorrow- 
ful for  that,  and  there  had  been  those  whose  minds 
seemed  not  to  have  taken  the  dye.  There  were  some 
in  this  church  of  whom,  in  the  years  he  had  dwelt  in 
this  country,  he  had  grown  fond;  folk  that  of  their 
own  bent  felt  for  him  liking  and  kindness.  .  .  .  But 
he  did  not  deceive  himself.  He  knew  of  none  that 
would  stand  before  this  parching  and  withering 
wind.  Heretofore  the  talk  might  have  been  idle 
talk,  but  now  it  was  evident  that  Master  Clement 
had  at  his  shaken  finger-ends  the  history  in  France 
170 


HAWTHORN  CHURCH 

of  Gilbert  Aderhold.  Friends!  By  what  multitude 
of  written  words,  of  hearsay  and  legend  —  by  what 
considerable  amount  of  personal  observation  did 
he  know  how  friends  fell  away  from  the  denounced 
dreamer  of  dreams!  .  .  .  Poor  friends!  He  felt  no 
rise  of  bitterness  against  them.  They  would  not 
have  fallen  away  in  physical  battle;  they  would 
have  stood  many  a  strain,  perhaps  all  but  this. 
This  was  not  to  cow  the  blood ;  it  was  to  cow  mind 
and  the  immortal  spirit.  To  face  for  a  friend  a  wolf, 
a  lion,  or  an  earthly  angered  King,  that  was  well ! 
—  but  to  face  for  a  friend  an  angered  God,  to  save 
him  not  from  hell-fire  and  to  be  yourself  whelmed, 
remediless,  for  eternity !  Few  there  were  who  could 
inwardly  frame  the  question,  "Is  He  angered?"  or 
"What  is  He  that  can  be  so  angered?"  or  "You 
who  would  silence  this  man  with  the  silence  of  death, 
are  you  beyond  doubt  the  spokesmen  of  God  and 
Eternity?  Are  you,  after  all,  God's  Executioners?" 
But  they  said  that  they  were,  and  the  human  mind 
was  clay  to  believe.  .  .  .  Aderhold  looked  over  the 
church  and  thought  he  saw  none  who  would  not  be 
terrified  aside. 

Well!  he  asked  those  questions  and  other  ques- 
tions. Mind  and  moral  nature  rose  in  him  and  stood. 
But  he  knew  that  his  body  would  betray  him  if  it 
could.  Highly  strung,  very  sensitive  to  pain,  he  pos- 
sessed an  imagination  and  memory  vivid  to  paint  or 
to  bring  back  all  manner  of  pangs  and  shrinkings  of 
the  earthly  frame.  No  detail  of  any  Calvary  but  in 

171 


THE  WITCH 

some  wise  he  knew  and  feared  it.  He  felt  the  cold 
sweat  dew  his  temples  and  break  out  upon  the  backs 
of  his  hands.  He  felt  the  nausea  that  numbed  and 
withered  the  brain  and  brought  the  longing  for 
death.  . .  . 

Not  in  the  beginning,  the  middle,  or  the  ending  of 
his  white-heated  discourse  did  the  minister  call  the 
name  of  Gilbert  Aderhold  or  say  the  Oak  Grange. 
The  invective,  the  "Lo,  this  is  he  that  troubleth 
Israel!"  only  drew  in  circles,  closer,  closer,  until 
there  was  no  one  there  who  did  not  know  who  was 
meant.  The  tremendous  accusation  was  of  Athe- 
ism, but  in  and  out  there  tolled  like  a  lesser  bell, 
Sorcery!  Sorcery!  The  withdrawing  light,  the  hot, 
small,  vagrant  breaths  of  air,  announcers  of  the 
onward  rolling  storm,  the  darkened  hollow  of  the 
building  with  the  whitewashed  walls  glimmering 
pale,  the  faces  lifted  from  the  benches,  the  square 
Hall  pew,  the  high  pulpit  and  the  black  sounding- 
board  and  the  black  figure  with  the  lifted  arms  and 
the  death-like  shaken  hands,  and  in  the  back  of  the 
church,  all  knew,  even  if  they  could  not  see  him,  the 
man  who  had  made  pact  with  the  Devil.  ...  A 
woman  fainted;  a  child  began  a  frightened,  whim- 
pering crying.  The  sands  had  quite  run  out  from  the 
upper  half  of  the  hourglass.  .  .  . 

Aderhold,  close  to  the  door,  was  the  first  of  the 
congregation  to  step  from  the  church  into  the  open 
air.  It  would  seem  that  those  near  him  held  back, 
so  as  to  let  the  fearful  thing  forth  and  out.  The 

172 


HAWTHORN  CHURCH 

churchyard  path  stretched  bare  before  him,  be- 
tween the  yews  to  the  mossed  gate,  and  so  forth 
from  the  immediate  pale.  There  came  as  yet  no 
challenge  or  molestation.  He  had  looked  for  this; 
when  all  had  risen  and  he  with  them,  it  had  been 
with  an  inward  bracing  to  meet  at  the  door  a  writ  of 
arrest.  He  looked  to  see  the  Hawthorn  constable. 
But  he  was  not  at  the  door,  or  out  upon  the  path, 
or  at  the  gate.  .  .  .  The  storm  was  at  hand,  with 
clouds  heavy  and  dark  as  the  yew  trees  and  with  a 
mutter  of  thunder.  As  he  reached  the  village  street, 
raindrops  touched  his  face.  Behind  him  the  church- 
yard was  astir  with  people,  murmuring  and  dark. 
He  wrapped  his  cloak  about  him,  pulled  his  hat 
down  against  the  rain,  and  faced  homeward.  Al- 
most immediately,  the  church  being  at  the  village 
end,  the  cloud-shadowed  country  was  about  him. 
•  He  walked  rapidly  for  half  a  mile,  then  halted  and 
stood  in  the  wind  and  rain,  trying  to  think  it  out.  It 
occurred  to  him  that  he  might  turn  back  through  the 
fields  and  passing  the  village  come  out  on  the  high- 
way and  strike  southward  to  the  town  and  the  castle. 
He  knew  not  if  his  friend  of  the  hawk  were  yet  at  the 
castle.  And  if  he  were  not?  —  and  if  he  were?  .  .  . 
There  was  that  at  the  Oak  Grange  which  must  be 
considered.  His  book  —  there  in  the  quiet  room 
behind  the  cupboard's  oaken  door,  all  his  writing 
lying  there  —  that  which  he  was  trying  to  put  down. 
It  turned  him  decisively  from  the  town  and  the  bare 
chance  of  reaching  help.  His  book  was  his  lover  and 

173 


THE  WITCH 

playmate  and  child.  He  put  himself  into  motion 
again  and  went  on  toward  the  Grange,  beneath  the 
tempestuous  sky,  through  the  wind  and  the  rain. 
.  .  .  When  he  came  within  Hawthorn  Forest  there 
arrived  a  sudden  lull.  The  oaks  stood  still  around 
him,  the  raindrops  fringing  branch  and  twig  and 
unfolding  tufts  of  velvet  leaves.  Overhead  the 
clouds  drove  apart,  there  came  a  gleam  of  intensest 
blue.  As  he  moved  through  the  forest  it  took  on  an 
ineffable  beauty.  When  he  came  to  the  edge  and  to 
the  stream  murmuring  over  its  pebbly  strand  there 
was  a  great  rainbow.  He  crossed  the  footbridge  and 
went  on  by  the  fairy  oak. 

Within  the  still  old  house  was  none  but  himself. 
Dorothy  and  the  boy,  her  nephew,  had  been  there 
in  Hawthorn  Church.  They  would  come  on  but 
slowly;  indeed,  they  might  have  stopped  at  a  cou- 
sin's on  the  way;  indeed,  he  knew  not  if,  terrified 
and  at  a  loss,  they  would  come  back  to  the  Grange 
at  all.  They  might,  perhaps,  have  waited  to  beseech 
the  minister's  and  the  squire's  protection  and  ad- 
vice. There  was  a  fire  in  the  kitchen.  Aderhold, 
spreading  his  cloak  to  dry,  knelt  upon  the  hearth, 
crouched  together,  bathed  by  the  good  warmth. 
But  even  while  the  light  and  comfort  played  about 
him  there  came  into  his  mind,  suddenly,  with  sick- 
ening strength,  a  thing  that  he  had  witnessed  in  his 
childhood,  here  in  England.  Again  he  saw  a  woman 
burning  at  a  stake.  .  .  .  He  shuddered  violently,  rose 
and  left  the  room. 

174 


HAWTHORN  CHURCH 

Upstairs  he  unlocked  the  cupboard  and  took  from 
it  a  heap  of  closely  covered  manuscript.  It  rested 
upon  the  table  before  him  .  .  .  He  stood  for  some 
moments  with  a  bowed  head;  presently  his  hand 
stole  to  the  leaves  and  caressed  them.  He  knew  what 
he  should  do ;  he  should  take  the  whole  down  to  the 
kitchen  and  lay  it  in  the  fire.  Since  the  warning  of 
the  man  with  the  hawk  he  had  known  that  that 
was  what  should  be  done.  The  knowledge  had  lain 
upon  his  heart  at  night.  "I  will  do  it  to-morrow," 
and  again,  "  I  will  do  it  to-morrow."  The  only  other 
thing  was  to  hide  it  in  some  deep  and  careful  place, 
whence,  if  ever  there  came  escape  and  security,  he 
might  recover  it,  or  where,  long  years  after  he  was 
dead,  men  might  find  it  and  read  it.  He  had  thought 
of  digging  beneath  the  fairy  oak  —  but  the  fire,  he 
knew,  was  the  safest.  .  .  .  He  gathered  all  together 
and  with  it  in  his  hands  went  downstairs.  He 
thought  that  he  had  decided  upon  the  fire,  but 
going,  he  had  a  vision  of  a  mattock  and  spade 
resting  behind  an  outhouse  door.  Now  would  be 
the  time  to  dig,  now  at  once !  As  his  foot  touched 
the  oak  flooring  of  the  hall  there  sounded  a  heavy 
knock  upon  the  door.  It  was  not  locked  or  barred ; 
even  as  he  stood  the  one  uncertain  instant,  it  swung 
inward  to  admit  the  men  who  had  followed  him 
from  Hawthorn. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

NIGHT 

THE  storm  that  had  broken  in  the  early  afternoon 
regathered.  The  clouds  hung  low  and  black,  the 
wind  whistled,  the  rain  came  in  gusts,  now  and  again 
there  was  lightning  and  thunder.  It  was  so  dark  in 
Heron's  cottage,  behind  the  deep,  dripping  eaves, 
that  Joan  moving  to  and  fro  seemed  a  shadow 
among  shadows.  The  hearth  glowed,  but  she  held 
her  hand  from  making  a  bright  light  with  fresh  fag- 
gots. Her  mood  was  not  for  the  dancing  flame. 

What  it  was  for  she  knew  not.  She  only  knew 
that  she  was  suited  by  the  rain  that  dashed,  by  the 
bending  fruit  trees,  striking  the  thatch  with  mossed 
boughs,  the  solemn  roll  of  the  thunder,  the  darkness 
and  solitude.  She  paced  the  room,  her  arms  lifted 
and  crossed  behind  her  head.  At  last  a  bit  of  un- 
burned  wood  caught  and  sent  up  forked  flames. 
Light  and  shadow  danced  about  the  walls.  The 
grey  and  white  cat  came  and  walked  with  Joan, 
rubbing  against  her  skirt. 

The  thunder  rolled.  Outside,  the  murk  of  the  day 
thickened  toward  evening.  A  hand  fell  across  the 
door,  then  pressed  the  latch.  The  door  swung  inward ; 
there  was  a  vision  of  a  muffled  figure,  behind  it  wind- 
tossed  trees  and  up-towering  clouds  lit  by  lightning. 

176 


NIGHT 

"Who  is  it?"  Joan  cried  sharply;  then,  as  the 
man  let  drop  the  cloak  he  had  been  holding  across 
his  face,  "  Master  Carthew!  .  .  ." 

The  firelight,  sinking,  left  only  the  smouldering 
coals  and  the  room  almost  dark.  Joan,  moving 
swiftly  across  the  room,  seized  fresh  brands  and 
threw  them  upon  the  old.  A  flame  leaped  up;  the 
place  was  fairly  light  again.  She  turned  upon  him. 
"To  come  here  —  to  come  here  — •" 

"Aye,"  he  answered,  "to  come  here."  He  un- 
clasped his  great  cloak  and  let  it  drop  on  the  set- 
tle, took  off  his  steeple-crowned  hat  and  set  it  on 
the  cloak.  He  stood  out,  dark-clothed,  plain  as  Mas- 
ter Clement  himself  in  what  he  wore,  with  short- 
cut hair,  with  handsome  features,  haggard,  flushed, 
and  working.  "  Do  you  know  whence  I  have  come? 
I  have  come  from  leading  men  to  the  Oak  Grange 
where  they  took  and  bound  that  atheist  there  and 
carried  him  away  to  gaol.  You'll  walk  no  more 
with  him  in  Hawthorn  Forest." 

Joan  drew  a  heavy,  painful  breath.  "I  walked 
little  with  him  in  Hawthorn  Forest.  But  when  my 
father  took  the  plague  he  came  to  him.  He  is  a  good 
man!  Aye,  I  was  in  church  and  heard  Master 
Clement—" 

"Nay,  I  think  that  you  walked  much.  But  now 
you  will  walk  no  more."  He  came  nearer  to  her. 
"Joan,  put  that  Satan's  servant  from  out  your 
mind!  Turn  instead  to  one  who  sinneth  truly  and 
puts  oftentimes  in  peril  his  immortal  soul,  but  is 

177 


THE  WITCH 

at  least  no  misbeliever  and  denier  of  God's  Word. 
Joan  —  Joan!" 

He  tried  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  She  was  strong 
and  broke  from  him.  Behind  her  was  a  shelf  with 
some  pewter  jugs  and  dishes  and  small  articles  of 
use.  She  put  up  her  arm  and  snatched  from  it  a 
good  and  keen  hunting-knife;  then  stood,  breathing 
quickly,  the  firelight  reddening  the  blade  in  her 
hand. 

He  gave  a  harsh  and  forced  laugh.  "  Put  it  down, 
Joan!  I  did  not  mean  to  fright  thee.  I  came  to 
persuade  — " 

'Nay,  I  '11  keep  it  by  me,"  said  Joan.  "  Persuade 
me  to  what?  To  feel  love  for  you?  That,  Master 
Carthew,  you  cannot  do !  But  you  could  make  me 
feel  gratitude  — " 

"  If  I  took  hat  and  cloak  and  went  from  out  your 
door?" 

"Aye,  just." 

"I  cannot.  .  .  .  No  man  ever  loved  as  I  love  you. 
.  .  .  Here,  this  dusk,  this  Sabbath.  —  Think  if  I 
am  in  earnest.  .  .  .  Joan,  Joan!  If  I  lose  for  thee 
my  immortal  soul  — ' ' 

She  made  a  sound  of  anger  and  contempt.  "Oh, 
thy  little  immortal  soul !  Be  but  mortal  — •  and 
just!"  The  tears  rose  in  her  grey  eyes.  "See  what 
you  will  do  to  me!  Say  that  you  were  seen  coming 
here  —  say  that  any  of  the  times  you  have  waited  for 
me,  waylaid  me,  met  me  against  my  will,  you  were 
watched  —  we  were  seen  together.  .  .  .  You  are  a 

178 


NIGHT 

man  and  a  gentleman  and  a  great  man  in  this 
country.  It  will  not  harm  you.  But  Joan  Heron  — 
but  Joan  Heron  —  it  will  harm  her!  It  will  provide 
her  misery  for  all  her  days ! ' ' 

Carthew  struck  his  hand  against  the  settle.  "Is 
not  all  my  name  and  future  risked?  I  am  not  of  the 
old  England,  nor  of  to-day's  careless  and  idolatrous 
England.  My  world  is  the  world  of  the  new  Eng- 
land, of  the  forces  of  the  Lord  mustering  upon  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  where  there  is  no  room  for 
Satan's  toys!  And  if  I  turn  aside  to  Babylon  and  the 
flesh  and  its  madness,  and  if  my  turning  becomes 
known  —  Joan,  Joan,  you  know  not  how  great  is  my 
risk — even  my  worldly  risk!  As  for  the  other — as 
for  my  risk  of  God's  hatred  and  damnation  —  but  I 
will  not  speak  of  that.  .  .  .  Enough  that  I  am  here, 
and  that  to  hold  you  consenting  in  my  arms  would 
even  all  out  and  make  my  lead  gold  and  my  torment 
bliss !  Joan  —  if  you  would  but  love  me  and  feel  how 
the  risk  is  outweighed !  As  for  security,  we  can  man- 
age that.  Many  another  pair  has  managed  that. 
To-day  —  here  —  with  the  wind  and  rain  keeping 
all  within  doors.  ...  I  rode  with  the  men  some  way 
toward  the  town,  and  then  I  left  them,  saying  there 
were  matters  at  home  that  needed.  When  they  were 
out  of  sight,  I  turned  through  the  fields  and  went  up 
the  stream  that  was  all  solitary,  until  I  was  over 
against  the  Oak  Grange  and  the  forest  all  around 
me.  Then  I  turned  and  rode  here  through  the  forest, 
and  fastened  my  horse  in  a  hollow  out  there  where 

179 


THE  WITCH 

none  may  see  him.  .  .  .  Joan,  it  is  like  a  desert  all 
about  us  —  or  like  Paradise  garden.  Joan,  Joan,  I 
love  you !  Joan,  have  pity ! ' ' 

There  came  an  access  of  lightning  with  thunder 
and  a  prolonged  whistling  of  the  wind.  In  the  war- 
ring light  and  darkness  of  the  room,  Carthew,  as 
though  the  final  spring  of  restraint  had  snapped, 
came  close  to  her,  put  his  arms  about  her.  The 
lightning  blazed  again,  and  by  it  both  saw  with  dis- 
tinctness a  man  and  woman  standing  without,  their 
faces  close  to  the  window.  In  the  darkness  after  the 
flash,  they  left  it  and  came  on  to  the  cottage  door, 
but  as  yet  did  not  knock.  Within  the  room,  Car- 
thew, sobered,  the  colour  ebbing  from  his  face,  only 
one  consideration  pouring  in  upon  his  mind,  re- 
leased Joan  and  caught  from  the  settle  hat  and 
cloak.  There  was  a  second  outward-opening  door, 
giving  upon  the  bit  of  garden  behind  the  cottage, 
leading  in  its  turn  to  the  forest.  He  looked  toward 
it.  She  nodded,  "Yes,  yes,  go!"  He  came  close  to 
her,  moving  noiselessly  and  speaking  low,  "Do  you 
think  they  saw  —  saw  at  all? " 

She  shook  her  head.   "  I  do  not  know." 

"It  was  too  dusk  within.  I  do  not  think  they 
saw.  Keep  counsel,  Joan,  for  thy  own  sake  if  not 
for  mine." 

The  two  without  knocked.  Carthew  crossed  the 
floor  without  sound,  opened  the  forest-facing  door, 
and  with  a  gesture  of  farewell  vanished.  There  was 
a  continuous  noise  of  wind  and  rain ;  what  daylight 

180 


NIGHT 

was  left  and  the  lightning  were  all  without;  it  might 
truly  be  doubted  if  one  glancing  through  the  win- 
dow could  either  see  or  hear,  the  interior  was  so 
dusky,  the  voice  of  wind  and  wet  so  continuing. 
Joan,  with  a  long,  shuddering  sigh,  put  down  the 
hunting-knife,  and  going  to  the  door  opened  it. 
The  two  who  stood  there  were  Will  the  smith's  son 
and  his  mother.  They  had,  it  seemed,  the  weather 
clearing,  walked  to  see  the  forester's  people;  then, 
the  clouds  returning,  they  had  taken  their  leave  to 
hurry  home.  But  the  storm  had  overtaken  them  — 
and  they  had  thought  to  take  refuge  until  the  rain 
lessened  in  Heron's  cottage.  But  they  did  not 
know  —  they  thought  they  had  better  go  on. 

"Come  in  and  warm  and  dry  yourselves,"  said 
Joan. 

They  came  in  hesitatingly.  They  looked  around 
them,  confused  and  doubtful.  They  sat  on  the  settle 
by  the  fire  and  stared  at  the  grey  and  white  cat. 
Will  was  trembling,  and  it  could  not  be  from  the  wet 
and  chill,  for  he  was  used  to  that. 

His  mother  was  of  stouter  mental  make.  "  Were 
you  alone,  Joan?  It  seemed  to  us  there  was  some- 
body else  — •" 

"Why,  who  else,"  asked  Joan,  "could  there  have 
been?"  She  looked  around  her.  "The  shadows 
moving  along  the  walls  do  look  like  people." 

"It  looked,"  said  Will,  in  a  strange  voice,  "as 
though  you  and  a  shadow  were  locked  and  moving 
together.  It  looked  like  a  tall  black  man."  He 

181 


THE  WITCH 

stared  at  the  fire  and  at  the  grey  and  white  cat.  A 
fine,  bead-like  moisture  that  was  not  rain  clung  to 
his  brow,  beneath  his  yellow  elf  locks. 

"No,  no  black  man,"  said  Joan.  "I  myself  fancy 
all  kinds  of  things  in  a  storm." 

Her  woman  guest  was  silent.  She  sat  with  bead- 
like  blue  eyes  now  on  Joan,  now  upon  the  kitchen 
from  wall  to  wall.  But  Will's  perturbation  re- 
mained. The  events  of  the  day,  North-End  Farm 
talk  and  the  tinker's  talk,  the  atmosphere  of  heat 
and  storm,  church  and  the  denunciation  of  his  old 
master's  kinsman,  the  physician  with  whom  at  the 
Oak  Grange  he  had  himself  been  in  daily  contact, 
the  talk  at  the  forester's  which  had  been  of  the  mar- 
vellous, indeed,  and  the  evident  power  of  Satan; 
afterwards  the  dark  wood,  the  lightning,  rain,  and 
thunder,  and  then  the  momentary  spectral  vision 
through  the  window,  which  now,  it  seemed,  was 
naught  —  all  wrought  powerfully  upon  his  unstable 
imagination.  There  flowed  into  his  mind  his  long- 
ago  adventure  with  the  wolf  that  ran  across  the 
snow-field,  and  was  trapped  that  night  but  never 
found  .  .  .  but  old  Marget  Primrose  was  found  with 
her  ankle  cut.  The  remembrance  dragged  with  it 
another  —  he  was  again  with  that  same  physician 
sitting  his  horse  before  the  portal  of  the  great  church 
in  the  town  —  the  carvings  in  the  stone  struck  with 
almost  material  force  back  into  his  mind  that  was 
edged  already  with  panic.  Witches  and  devils.  .  .  . 
And  the  tinker's  talk  of  how  Scotland  was  beset, 

182 


NIGHT 

and  Satan  buying  women,  old  and  young.  .  .  .  He 
had  always  thought  of  witches  being  old  like  Marget 
Primrose  or  like  Mother  Spuraway  —  but,  of  course, 
they  could  be  young.  .  .  .  The  forester's  wife,  that 
afternoon,  had  said  something  —  it  hummed  back 
through  his  head.  Her  beehives  were  bewitched  by 
Joan  Heron's  beehives.  .  .  . 

His  mind  was  tinder  to  every  superstitious  spark. 
With  a  whistling  breath  and  a  shuffling  of  the  feet, 
he  rose  from  the  settle.  "We 're  dry  and  warm  now, 
mother.  —  Let's  be  getting  home." 

His  mother,  it  seemed,  was  ready.  Her  parting 
with  Joan  was  somewhat  tight-lipped  and  stony. 
"Seeing  that  you  are  alone  now  in  the  world  't  is  a 
pity  you  ever  had  to  leave  living  by  the  town  and 
the  castle !  There  were  fine  strange  doings  there  that 
you  miss,  no  doubt  — " 

The  two  went  out  into  the  declining  day.  The 
rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wind  blew  hard,  driving 
vast  iron-grey  clouds  across  the  sky.  However, 
since  the  thunder  had  rolled  away,  one  could  talk. 
As  soon  as  the  two  were  out  of  the  cottage  gate  and 
upon  the  serpentine  green  path,  wet  beneath  the  wet 
trees,  they  began  to  talk. 

"It  was  something,"  said  Will;  "and  then  when 
we  got  within,  it  was  nothing  ....  Mother!" 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  his  mother.  "It  was  n't  to  be 
seen  plain.  But  she  was  not  by  herself." 

"Mother  .  .  .  the  tinker  saith  that  the  Scotch 
witches  all  have  familiars.  A  man  or  a  woman  or 

183 


THE  WITCH 

sometimes  children  see  such  and  such  an  one  walking 
or  talking  with  a  tall  black  man,  but  when  they  get 
close  there  is  only,  maybe,  a  dog,  or  a  cat,  or  some- 
times a  frog  or  a  mouse.  .  .  .  But  the  witch-prickers 
always  find  the  witch's  mark  where  the  Devil  that  is 
her  familiar  sucks.  .  .  .  And  then  the  witch  con- 
fesses and  tells  how  the  Devil  is  now  tall  and  black 
like  himself  and  now  shrinks  into  the  small  beast, 
and  how  by  his  power  she  can  herself  change  her 
shape.'* — Will  shivered  and  his  eyes  glanced  fear- 
fully about.  "  Mother,  do  you  think  that  there  was 
something  evil  there?" 

His  mother  looked  steadily  before  her  with  beady 
blue  eyes.  "I  don't  know  what  I  think.  I  think 
there  was  somebody  or  something  there  that  she 
did  n't  want  seen  or  known  about  —  but  where  it 
went,  or  he  went.  .  .  .  Don't  you  think  any  more 
that  you  might  marry  her." 

Back  in  Heron's  cottage  Joan  sat  crouched  before 
the  fire.  She  fed  it  now  constantly  with  wood  so  as 
to  make  the  whole  room  light.  A  determination  was 
taking  form  in  her  mind.  To-morrow  she  would 
walk  to  the  town,  and  climb  the  castle  hill,  and  ask 
for  Mistress  Borrow  at  the  castle.  The  old  house- 
keeper had  called  her  a  pagan,  but  natheless  she  had 
been  fond  of  Joan  and  Joan  of  her.  .  .  .  Now  to  go  to 
the  castle,  and  find  her  in  the  cheerful  housekeeper's 
room  and  to  sit  on  the  floor  beside  her  with  head, 
maybe,  in  her  lap,  and  free  a  burdened  heart  and 
mind  and  ask  counsel.  .  .  .  She  would  do  it.  She 

184 


NIGHT 

would  start  early  —  at  sunrise.  The  vigour  of  her 
purpose  lightened  her  heart ;  she  rose  to  her  feet,  and 
going  to  the  window,  looked  out.  It  was  quite  dark. 
The  storm  had  died  away,  but  the  sky  was  filled 
with  torn  and  hurrying  clouds.  Now  hidden,  now 
silvering  cloud  and  earth,  a  half-moon  hurried  too. 
Joan  stood  gazing,  her  face  lifted.  She  thought  of 
her  father.  At  last  she  raised  her  arm,  closed  the 
casement,  and  drew  across  it  its  linen  curtain.  From 
the  cupboard  she  took  a  candlestick  and  candle  and 
lighted  the  latter  with  a  splinter  from  the  hearth. 
She  set  it  upon  the  table,  and  going  to  the  main  door 
turned  the  large  key  in  the  lock.  This  done,  she 
moved  across  the  kitchen  floor  to  the  small  door 
giving  upon  the  back.  The  key  was  lost  of  this,  but 
there  was  a  heavy  bar.  She  had  lifted  this  to  slip  it 
into  place  when  the  door,  pushing  against  her, 
opened  from  without.  Carthew  reentered  the  room. 

Joan  uttered  a  cry  less  of  fright  than  of  sudden 
and  great  anger.  "Beware,"  she  cried,  "that  I  do 
not  kill  you  yet!  Begone  from  this  place!" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No.  I  have  watched  all 
away.  Who  comes,  after  curfew,  of  a  wet  and  wild 
night,  to  your  cottage?  No  good  folk  of  this  region, 
I  am  sure.  So  we're  alone  now,  Joan,  at  last!" 

He  made  a  movement  past  her.  She  saw  what  he 
was  after,  and,  lithe  and  quick  herself,  she  was  there 
first.  She  had  the  knife  again.  .  .  .  They  stood  fac- 
ing each  other  in  the  lit  room,  and  Joan  spoke. 

"Thou  hypocrite!"  she  said;  "thou  pillar  of 
185 


THE  WITCH 

Hawthorn  Church  and  dependence  of  God  on  high 
and  Master  Clement!  Thou  hope  of  England! 
Thou  searcher-out  of  iniquity  and  punisher  of 
wrong-doing !  Thou  perceiver  of  high  things  and  the 
meaning  of  the  world!  Thou  judge  and  master  in 
thy  own  conceit!  —  Thou  plain  and  beast-like  man, 
who  wantest  but  one  thing  and  knows  not  love,  but 
lust—" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms.  He  was  strong,  but 
so  was  she.  They  struggled,  swaying,  their  shad- 
ows, in  firelight  and  candlelight,  towering  above 
them.  They  breathed  hard  —  they  uttered  broken 
words,  ejaculations.  He  was  in  the  grasp  of  the 
brute  past ;  she  struggled  with  the  energy  of  despair 
and  hatred.  She  felt  that  he  gained.  Need  taught 
her  cunning.  She  seemed  to  give  in  his  clasp,  then, 
in  the  moment  when  he  was  deceived,  she  gathered 
all  her  strength,  tore  her  arm  free,  and  struck  with 
the  hunting-knife. 

The  blade  entered  his  side.  She  drew  it  out,  en- 
crimsoned.  They  fell  apart,  Carthew  reeling  against 
the  wall.  The  colour  ebbed  from  his  face.  He  felt 
the  bleeding,  and  thrusting  a  scarf  within  his  doub- 
let, strove  to  stanch  it.  As  he  leaned  there,  he  kept 
his  eyes  upon  her.  But  with  the  suddenness  of  the 
lightning  their  expression  had  changed.  Wrath  and 
defeat  and  shame  were  written  in  them ;  desire  still, 
but  mixed  now  with  something  baleful,  with  some- 
thing not  unlike  hate.  The  bleeding  continued.  He 
felt  a  singing  in  his  ears  and  a  mist  before  his  eyes. 

186 


NIGHT 

With  the  ice  of  the  new  mood  came  a  sense  of  the 
peril  of  his  position.  Did  he  swoon  here  fro*m  loss  of 
blood  —  grow  so  weak  that  he  could  not  get  away 
—  be  found  here  when  day  came  —  The  scandal 
flared  out  in  letters  of  fire  before  him.  He  saw  the 
face  of  Master  Clement,  and  the  faces  of  other  and 
more  powerful  men  of  the  faction,  religious  and  po- 
litical, with  which  he  was  becoming  strongly  identi- 
fied. .  .  .  He  must  get  away  —  get  home  —  framing 
some  story  as  he  went.  His  horse  was  near  —  the 
streaming  blood  seemed  less. 

Joan  stood  like  a  dart,  in  her  face  blended  relief 
and  horror.  They  stared  each  at  the  other. 

"Do  you  remember,"  said  Carthew  in  a  hollow 
voice,  "in  the  forest  there,  I  said  that  love  might 
turn  to  hate?  Beware  lest  it  has  turned!" 

"You  may  hate  me,"  said  Joan.  "You  never 
loved  me." 

He  took  his  eyes  from  her  and  moving  haltingly  to 
the  door  opened  it.  His  horse  was  close  outside, 
fastened  within  the  small  enclosure.  Through  the 
dark  oblong,  by  the  light  of  the  half-moon,  she  saw 
him  mount.  He  gathered  up  the  reins,  he  held  also 
by  the  horse's  mane.  His  face  looked  back  at  her  for 
a  moment,  a  ghastly,  an  enemy's  face.  Then  there 
was  only  the  mournful  night  and  Heron's  cottage, 
thatch-roofed,  sunk  among  blossoming  fruit  trees 
from  which  the  raindrops  dripped,  dripped. 


CHAPTER  XV 

NEXT  DAY 

AT  sunrise  she  shut  the  cottage  door  behind  her, 
locked  it,  and  put  the  key  in  a  hiding-place  under 
the  eaves,  then  went  down  the  path  between  the 
daffodils  and  out  of  the  little  gate.  She  had  a  basket 
upon  her  arm  and  within  it  in  a  blue  jar  a  honey- 
comb for  a  gift  to  Mistress  Borrow.  It  was  a  morn- 
ing fresh  and  fragrant,  the  grass  diamonded  with 
last  night's  rain,  the  tree-tops  veiled  with  mist, 
distant  cocks  crowing.  When  she  came  upon  the 
road  the  sun  was  drinking  up  the  mist ;  it  was  going 
to  be  a  beautiful  day. 

She  walked  for  some  distance  toward  the  village, 
but  at  a  point  where  she  saw  Carthew  House  among 
the  trees  and  the  church  yews  were  growing  large 
before  her,  she  turned  into  a  path  that  would  take 
her  through  the  fields  and  bring  her  out  upon  the 
highway  with  the  village  left  behind.  She  did  not 
wish  to  go  through  the  village,  she  did  not  wish  to 
pass  Alison  Inch's  door,  she  did  not  wish  to  come 
near  to  Carthew  House. 

She  walked  between  the  springing  grain,  and 
through  a  copse  where  a  thrush  was  singing,  and  by 
a  stream  that  was  the  same  that  murmured  past  the 
Oak  Grange,  and  so  at  last  came  back  to  the  high- 

188 


NEXT  DAY 

way.  She  looked  back.  The  village  roofs,  the  church 
tower,  rested  dark  against  the  blue  sky;  light  curls 
of  smoke  were  rising  and  a  great  bird  sailed  over- 
head. 

Before  her,  over  hill  and  dale,  ran  the  road  to  the 
town.  She  shifted  her  basket  to  the  other  arm  and 
walked  on  in  the  golden  morning.  Now  she  was  by 
nature  courageous,  and  by  nature  also  a  lover  of 
light  and  air,  of  form  and  colour,  of  diverse  motion 
and  the  throb  of  life.  In  her  soul  the  whole  round 
earth  mirrored  itself  as  alive,  and,  despite  black 
moods  and  fits  of  madness,  as  dominantly  good  and 
fair.  What  of  sorrow,  gloom,  and  care  had  of  late 
clung  about  her,  what  of  terror  and  horror  the  hap- 
pening of  the  evening  before  had  left  with  her, 
slowly  lessened,  grew  diaphanous  in  the  sunlight 
and  open  country.  The  road  began  to  entertain 
her,  and  there  came  sweet  wafted  memories  of  the 
castle  wood,  of  how  fondly  she  and  her  father  and 
uncle  had  lived  together  and  understood  one  an- 
other and  liked  life,  and  of  all  the  pleasant  doings 
when  the  great  family  were  at  the  castle.  Music 
hummed  in  her  ears  again,  the  figures  of  the  masque 
filed  across  the  green  sward. 

In  the  fresh  morning  there  was  more  or  less  meet- 
ing and  passing  on  the  road.  A  shepherd  with  a 
flock  of  sheep  overtook  her,  and  she  stood  under  an 
elm  to  let  them  by.  The  shepherd  whistled  clearly, 
the  sheep  kept  up  their  plaintive  crying,  pushing 
and  jostling  with  their  woolly  bodies,  their  feet  mak- 

189 


THE  WITCH 

ing  a  small  pattering  sound.  " To  market!  To  mar- 
ket!" said  the  shepherd.  "Are  you  for  the  market, 
too,  pretty  maid?"  Farther  on  she  overtook  in  her 
turn  two  or  three  children  going  on  some  errand  and 
walked  with  them  awhile.  They  wanted  to  know 
what  was  in  her  basket  and  she  opened  the  jar  and 
showed  them  the  bright  honeycomb,  then,  breaking 
clean  skewers  from  a  wayside  hazel,  dipped  them  in 
the  liquid  gold  and  gave  each  child  a  taste.  They 
left  her  at  a  lane  mouth,  and  she  walked  for  a  little 
way  with  two  women  who  were  carrying  between 
them  an  old  tavern  sign  painted  with  a  sheaf  of 
wheat  and  a  giant  bunch  of  grapes.  When  she  had 
left  these  two  behind  and  had  gone  some  distance 
upon  a  bare,  sunny  road,  she  saw  before  her  like  a 
picture  the  river  and  the  bridge,  the  climbing  town 
and  the  castle.  She  could  make  out  the  Black  Tower 
among  the  trees. 

The  town  was  quit  of  the  plague.  To  the  knowing 
there  would  be  still  visible  a  gloom  about  the  place, 
a  trailing  shadow  of  remembered  fear  and  loss. 
People  would  be  missed  from  the  streets,  vacant 
houses  and  shops  remarked.  Street  cries  and 
sounds  would  come  more  sombrely  and  the  sunshine 
fall  less  warmly.  But  to  the  stranger  it  would  seem 
a  town  as  usual.  For  Joan,  it  was  not  so  gay  and 
rich  as  once  it  had  been,  because  she  that  looked  on 
it  was  not  so  care-free  as  once  she  had  been.  But 
still  it  was  to  her  the  great  town,  so  different  from 
Hawthorn,  so  jewelled  with  pleasant  memories.  .  .  . 

190 


NEXT  DAY 

She  passed  the  vintner's  house  and  was  glad  to  see 
that  it  was  open  and  cheerful,  and  that  therefore  he 
had  not  died  of  the  plague.  At  length  she  came  to 
climb  the  castle  hill,  and  with  her  heart  beating 
fast  to  cross  the  pleasaunce  and  go  around  to  a 
certain  small  door  of  the  offices  through  which  she 
would  soonest  gain  admittance  to  Mistress  Borrow. 
The  sky  was  so  blue,  the  grass,  the  flowers,  the  bud- 
ding trees  were  so  fair,  mavis  and  lark  and  robin 
sang  so  shrill  and  sweet,  that  earth  and  heaven 
once  more  assumed  for  Joan  a  mother  aspect. 
Warm,  not  unhappy,  tears  came  to  her  eyes.  She 
shook  them  back  and  went  on  over  daisies  and  vio- 
lets. She  had  not  slept  last  night  and  the  miles 
were  long  between  her  and  Heron's  cottage.  She 
felt  light-headed  with  the  assurance  of  comfort  and 
counsel,  the  sense  that  the  black  cloud  that  had 
gathered  about  her  so  strangely,  so  almost  she  knew 
not  how,  would  now  begin  to  melt  away. 

Mistress  Borrow  was  not  at  the  castle.  Her  sister, 
thirty  miles  away,  was  dying  of  a  dropsy,  and  the 
housekeeper  had  been  given  leave  to  go  to  her.  She 
had  gone  last  week  —  she  might  be  away  a  month. 
.  .  .  The  family  were  not  there  —  they  had  gone  at 
the  first  alarm  of  the  plague.  Sir  Richard  had 
stayed  through  it  and  my  lord  the  countess's  father, 
had  stopped  for  a  week,  but  they,  too,  were  now 
away.  ...  It  was  a  civil-spoken  girl  who  told  her  all 
this,  a  new  maidservant  who  had  no  knowledge  of 
Joan.  There  were  men  and  women  servitors  whom 

191 


THE  WITCH 

she  remembered  and  who  would  remember  her,  but 
when  the  girl  asked  if,  Mistress  Borrow  being  away, 
she  could  do  her  errand  to  any  one  else,  she  shook 
her  head.  "You  look  dazed,"  said  the  maid. 
"  Better  come  in  and  sit  awhile."  But  no,  said  Joan, 
she  must  be  getting  home.  So  she  thanked  the  girl, 
and  they  said  good-morning  to  each  other,  and  she 
left  the  little  door  and  the  flagged  courtyard,  and 
coming  out  under  an  archway  found  herself  again 
upon  the  flower-starred  grass,  with  the  shadows  of 
the  trees  showing  two  hours  from  noon.  To  the 
right  stretched  the  castle  wood,  and  she  would  go 
through  it  and  see  again  the  huntsman's  house. 

It  rose  among  the  trees  before  her,  a  comfortable, 
friendly,  low,  deep-windowed  place.  She  would  not 
go  very  near ;  she  did  not  know  the  people  who  had 
it  now,  and  truly  she  felt  dazed  and  beaten  and  did 
not  wish  questioning  or  talk.  She  found  an  old, 
familiar  oak  with  huge  and  knotted  roots  rising 
amid  bracken,  and  here  she  sank  down  and  lay  with 
her  head  upon  her  arm  and  her  eyes  upon  the  place 
where  in  all  her  life  she  had  been  happiest.  An  old 
hound  came  and  snuffed  about  her,  a  redbreast 
watched  her  from  a  bough.  She  lay  for  some  time, 
resting,  not  thinking  but  dreaming  back.  At  last  she 
rose,  settled  the  basket  upon  her  arm,  looked  long 
at  the  huntsman's  house,  then  turned  away,  and 
leaving  the  wood  began  to  descend  the  castle  hill. 

When  she  passed  through  the  high  street  of  the 
town  the  church  bells  were  ringing.  She  turned  out 

192 


NEXT  DAY 

of  the  brighter  street  into  one  that  sloped  to  the 
river,  and  here  she  came  upon  an  open  place  and  the 
prison  tall  and  dark.  She  stopped  short,  standing  in 
the  shadow  of  a  bit  of  wall.  It  was  easy  for  one's 
own  cares  to  make  one  forget,  and  she  had  forgotten 
Aderhold.  But  he  would  be  here  —  there  was  no  real 
gaol  in  Hawthorn  itself,  though  offenders  might  be 
locked  for  a  time  in  a  dungeon-like  room  beneath  the 
sexton's  house.  But  a  learned  man  and  a  property- 
owner  and  a  man  accused  of  the  greatest  crime  of 
all,  which  was  to  deny  the  real  existence  and  power 
of  the  God  of  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob,  —  such 
an  one  would  be  brought  here.  They  would  have 
haled  Master  Aderhold  here  last  night.  .  .  .  She 
stood  and  gazed  at  the  frowning  mass.  The  win- 
dows were  few  and  far  apart  and  small  and  closely 
barred.  To-day  that  was  so  sunshiny  bright  would 
be  stifling  and  black  enough  in  there.  She  wished 
that  she  could  send  in  the  light  and  air. 

A  man,  coming,  too,  from  the  high  street  with  his 
course  shaped  for  Hawthorn  Village,  joined  her 
where  she  stood.  He  was  a  wiry,  crooked-shoul- 
dered, grizzle-headed,  poorly  clad  person  with  a  face 
of  some  knavery,  cunning,  and  wildness.  Over  his 
shoulder,  strung  together  with  leather  thongs,  hung 
some  small  pots  and  pans,  and  in  a  leather  pouch  he 
seemed  to  carry  tools  and  bits  of  metal.  Joan  recog- 
nized him  for  the  tinker,  who,  after  wandering  far 
and  wide,  came  back,  at  long  intervals,  to  a  hut  just 
this  side  of  Hawthorn.  It  appeared  that  on  his  part 

193 


THE  WITCH 

he  remembered  her  face.  ''From  Heron's  cottage, 
mistress?  —  near  the  Oak  Grange."  He  seemed  to 
cast  a  glance  upon  the  prison,  but  then  he  looked  at 
her  grey  eyes  and  her  face,  paler  to-day  than  was  its 
wont,  and  asked  if  she  had  walked  from  home.  She 
said  yes,  she  had  been  to  see  the  housekeeper  at  the 
castle  —  but  she  was  not  there.  "Was  she  walking 
back  to  Hawthorn?"  Yes,  she  said,  and  began  to 
move  across  the  prison  square.  He  moved  with  her. 
"I  walked  from  Hawthorn  myself  this  morning. 
Matters  to  buy  for  my  trade !  Shall  stop  here  at  the 
Boar's  Head  before  I  take  the  road  back."  To  her 
content  he  left  her,  and  she  went  on  by  the  great 
church  and  down  the  hill  to  the  arched  bridge.  But 
when  she  had  crossed  it,  and  when  the  river  behind 
her  lay  thin  like  a  silver  crescent,  she  found  him 
again  at  her  side. 

It  was  hot  midday  and  the  road  bare  of  folk.  She 
did  not  wish  a  travelling  companion  and  would  have 
liked  to  tell  him  so,  but  she  was  somehow  cowed  this 
noon,  weary  and  listless  where  on  the  sunrise  road 
she  had  been  hopeful.  She  let  him  walk  beside  her, 
a  freakish  figure,  vowed  to  mischief.  Immediately 
he  began  to  talk  about  the  plague.  Her  father  had 
died?  —  "Yes."  —  He  had  been  told  so.  Many 
people  had  died  —  many  people  in  the  town,  and 
not  so  many,  but  enough  in  Hawthorn  and  round- 
about. Once  he  saw  the  plague.  He  was  lying  in 
the  heather  on  a  hillside  near  a  town  that  had  it. 
Dark  was  coming.  Then  a  great  figure  of  a  woman, 

194 


NEXT  DAY 

black  and  purple,  with  a  veil  all  over,  rose  straight 
up  above  the  roofs  and  chimneys.  She  lifted  her 
arms  and  took  the  veil  from  her  head,  and  it  was 
crowned  with  shiny  gold  and  she  was  the  Plague  — 
and  she  floated  in  the  sky  and  took  her  veil  and  drew 
it  behind  her,  and  every  roof  it  touched  they  were 
going  to  die  in  that  house.  —  Yes,  tinkers  saw 
strange  things,  wandering  over  the  country.  There 
were  a  many  strange  things,  were  n't  there?  The 
plague  left  the  country  very  fearful  —  and  there 
was  another  strange  thing,  Fear!  It  took  a  man  and 
knocked  the  heart  out  of  him  —  but  then  to  make 
up,  it  gave  him  more  eyes  and  ears  than  he  'd  ever 
had  before ! 

He  looked  at  her  aslant.  "Did  you  ever  see  the 
Devil?" 

"No." 

"Then  you  are  n't  fearful,"  said  the  tinker. 
"Fearful  folk  can  see  him  plain." 

He  kept  silence  for  a  little,  his  eyes  upon  a  cloud 
of  butterflies  fluttering  before  them  over  a  muddy 
place  in  the  road,  then  again  turned  upon  Joan  his 
curious,  half-squinting  look.  "Of  course  there  've 
been  men  who  were  n't  afraid  and  yet  have  seen 
him.  Men  who  were  great  enemies  to  him,  and  push- 
ing him  hard,  and  he  so  angry  and  despairing  that  he 
shows  himself,  tail,  claws,  and  all!  Tall  Bible  men 
and  great  men  like  Doctor  Martin  Luther  who 
threw  his  ink-well  at  him.  And  a  lot  of  other  men 
—  mass-priests,  and  bishops,  and  marprelates,  all 

195 


THE  WITCH 

the  same.  It's  to  their  honour  to  have  seen  him,  for 
so  the  people  see  how  the  Devil  must  hate  them  to 
come  himself  to  beard  them,  and  what  a  strong 
enemy  they  are  to  him,  which  means,  of  course,  that 
the  King  of  Heaven  must  hold  them  in  high  re- 
gard. —  Even  poor  wights  may  sometimes  give  a 
good  blow  —  just  as  a  camp-follower  might  save  an 
army  or  a  scullion  a  palace!  I  'm  not  saying  that 
I  did  n't  get  a  glint  of  his  horns  myself  once  on 
Little  Heath,  between  two  furze  bushes!" 

Joan  was  not  talkative.  She  walked  steadily  on,  but 
she  was  tired,  and  her  mind  now  seemed  to  drowse, 
and  now,  rousing  itself,  strayed  far  from  the  other's 
talk. 

The  tinker  was  piqued  by  her  inattention.  "  And 
then  witches  and  warlocks  see  him.  —  Women  see 
him,"  he  said  with  spite.  "And  not  because  they're 
his  enemies  neither!  Ten  women  know  him,  hair 
and  hoof,  to  one  man.  .  .  .  For  why?  They  knew 
him  first,  as  the  good  Book  tells  us,  and  became  his 
gossips  in  Eden  Garden.  So  't  is  that  still  when 
things  go  wrong  't  is  woman  that  gives  them  the 
shog.  The  Devil  gives  her  the  apple  still,  and  she 
takes  it  and  shakes  out  harm  on  mankind  —  which 
is  why  we've  got  a  leave  to  keep  her  somewhat 
down !  That 's  woman  in  ordinary  —  and  then  you 
come  to  witches  — •" 

Joan's  eyelids  twitched. 

He  saw  that  she  attended.  "Witches!  First  they 
begin  by  having  commerce  with  elves  and  fays, 

196 


NEXT  DAY 

green  men,  and  such.  They  get  into  fairy  hills  and 
eat  and  drink  there,  and  they  dance  in  the  moon- 
light around  trees  in  the  wood.  But  the  elves  are 
the  Devil's  cousins,  and  he's  always  on  hand,  and 
some  night  he  comes  smirking  up,  dressed  now  this 
way  and  now  that.  So  the  woman  drops  a  curtsy, 
and  he  puts  out  his  hand  and  'gives  her  something, 
just  as  he  did  in  Eden  Garden.  She  takes  it,  and 
that  seals  her  both  sides  of  the  Judgement  Day! 
Pay  for  pay!  Blood  gives  him  strength,  and  so  he 
sucks  from  a  little  place  he  makes  upon  her  body  — 
that's  the  witch  mark  that  can't  be  made  to  feel 
pain,  and  that's  why  we  strip  and  prick  witches  to 
find  their  mark,  which  is  better  proof  even  than 
their  confessing !  Now  she's  the  Devil's  servant  and 
leman  forever,  and  begins  to  work  evil  and  practise 
the  Black  Art.  He  shows  her  how  to  fly  through  the 
air  and  change  herself  into  all  manner  of  shapes. 
Then  she  goes  to  his  Sabbat  and  learns  to  know  other 
witches  and  maybe  a  wizard  or  two,  though  there 
aren't  so  many  wizards.  They're  mostly  witches 
and  demons.  If  you  look  overhead  at  night  you  can 
sometimes  see  a  scud  of  them  flying  between  you  and 
the  moon.  Then  begin  the  tempests  of  hail  and 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  the  ships  that  are  sunk 
at  sea,  and  the  murrain  in  the  cattle,  and  the  corn 
blighted  and  ricks  burned  and  beasts  lamed  and 
children  possessed  and  gear  taken  and  sickness 


come  — " 


He  stopped  to  cough  and  also  to  observe  if  she 
197 


THE  WITCH 

the  same.  It's  to  their  honour  to  have  seen  him,  for 
so  the  people  see  how  the  Devil  must  hate  them  to 
come  himself  to  beard  them,  and  what  a  strong 
enemy  they  are  to  him,  which  means,  of  course,  that 
the  King  of  Heaven  must  hold  them  in  high  re- 
gard. —  Even  poor  wights  may  sometimes  give  a 
good  blow  —  just  as  a  camp-follower  might  save  an 
army  or  a  scullion  a  palace!  I  'm  not  saying  that 
I  did  n't  get  a  glint  of  his  horns  myself  once  on 
Little  Heath,  between  two  furze  bushes!" 

Joan  was  not  talkative.  She  walked  steadily  on,  but 
she  was  tired,  and  her  mind  now  seemed  to  drowse, 
and  now,  rousing  itself,  strayed  far  from  the  other's 
talk. 

The  tinker  was  piqued  by  her  inattention.  "And 
then  witches  and  warlocks  see  him.  —  Women  see 
him,"  he  said  with  spite.  "And  not  because  they're 
his  enemies  neither!  Ten  women  know  him,  hair 
and  hoof,  to  one  man.  .  .  .  For  why?  They  knew 
him  first,  as  the  good  Book  tells  us,  and  became  his 
gossips  in  Eden  Garden.  So  't  is  that  still  when 
things  go  wrong  't  is  woman  that  gives  them  the 
shog.  The  Devil  gives  her  the  apple  still,  and  she 
takes  it  and  shakes  out  harm  on  mankind  —  which 
is  why  we've  got  a  leave  to  keep  her  somewhat 
down!  That's  woman  in  ordinary  —  and  then  you 
come  to  witches  — ' ' 

Joan's  eyelids  twitched. 

He  saw  that  she  attended.  "Witches!  First  they 
begin  by  having  commerce  with  elves  and  fays, 


NEXT  DAY 

green  men,  and  such.  They  get  into  fairy  hills  and 
eat  and  drink  there,  and  they  dance  in  the  moon- 
light around  trees  in  the  wood.  But  the  elves  are 
the  Devil's  cousins,  and  he's  always  on  hand,  and 
some  night  he  comes  smirking  up,  dressed  now  this 
way  and  now  that.  So  the  woman  drops  a  curtsy, 
and  he  puts  out  his  hand  and  gives  her  something, 
just  as  he  did  in  Eden  Garden.  She  takes  it,  and 
that  seals  her  both  sides  of  the  Judgement  Day! 
Pay  for  pay!  Blood  gives  him  strength,  and  so  he 
sucks  from  a  little  place  he  makes  upon  her  body  — 
that's  the  witch  mark  that  can't  be  made  to  feel 
pain,  and  that's  why  we  strip  and  prick  witches  to 
find  their  mark,  which  is  better  proof  even  than 
their  confessing !  Now  she's  the  Devil's  servant  and 
leman  forever,  and  begins  to  work  evil  and  practise 
the  Black  Art.  He  shows  her  how  to  fly  through  the 
air  and  change  herself  into  all  manner  of  shapes. 
Then  she  goes  to  his  Sabbat  and  learns  to  know  other 
witches  and  maybe  a  wizard  or  two,  though  there 
are  n't  so  many  wizards.  They  're  mostly  witches 
and  demons.  If  you  look  overhead  at  night  you  can 
sometimes  see  a  scud  of  them  flying  between  you  and 
the  moon.  Then  begin  the  tempests  of  hail  and 
thunder  and  lightning,  and  the  ships  that  are  sunk 
at  sea,  and  the  murrain  in  the  cattle,  and  the  corn 
blighted  and  ricks  burned  and  beasts  lamed  and 
children  possessed  and  gear  taken  and  sickness 
come  — " 

He  stopped  to  cough  and  also  to  observe  if  she 
197 


THE  WITCH 

The  tinker,  swinging  himself  up,  spoke  with  a 
grin.  "There 's  room  for  you  too  —  " 

Joan  shook  her  head.  She  made  no  halting,  but 
went  on  by  in  her  greyish  gown  and  wide  hat  with 
her  basket  on  her  arm. 

The  carter  flicked  his  horse,  the  cart  passed  her, 
left  her  behind,  in  a  few  minutes  disappeared  around 
a  bend  of  the  road.  To  the  last  the  two  men  stared 
back  at  her;  she  seemed  to  hear  Lukin's  slow, 
clownish  voice  repeating  Cecily's  tattle  —  Cecily's 
and  Alison's. 

Hawthorn  Village  grew  plain  before  her :  thatched 
cottages,  the  trees  upon  the  green,  the  church  yews 
and  the  church  tower  —  there  flashed  upon  her 
again  yesterday  at  church,  and  Master  Aderhold 
in  prison.  He  was  a  good  man;  despite  what  the 
minister  had  said,  she  believed  that  with  passion  — 
he  was  a  good  man.  It  had  not  kept  them  from 
haling  him  to  prison.  What  would  they  do  to  him, 
what?  .  .  .  She  came  to  the  path  that  would  spare 
her  going  through  the  village  and  turned  into  it 
from  the  highway.  It  led  her  by  the  stream  and 
through  the  fields  and  out  upon  Hawthorn  Forest 
road.  Heron's  cottage  was  in  sight  when  she  met 
Goodman  Cole,  walking  to  the  village. 

He  looked  at  her  oddly.  "Good-day,  Joan." 

"Good-day,  goodman." 

"Where  have  you  been?" 

"I  walked  to  the  castle  to  see  Mistress  Borrow. 
But  she  was  not  there." 

200 


NEXT  DAY 

Goodman  Cole  propped  himself  upon  his  stick, 
full  in  her  way  in  the  sunny  road.  "We  are  seeing 
strange  doings  in  Hawthorn  Parish!  Aye,  strange 
doings  we  are  seeing!  Have  you  heard  about  Master 
Harry  Carthew?" 

"No. —  Heard  what?"    - 

"Then  I '11  tell  you,"  said  the  old  man.  "Yester- 
day afternoon  Master  Carthew  rode  a  part  of  the 
way  with  the  men  who  were  taking  the  leech  to  the 
town.  —  And  there,"  said  Goodman  Cole,  "is  an- 
other strange  thing!  That  we  could  like  an  atheist 
well  enough,  and  think  him  skilled  and  kindly,  and 
all  the  time  he  was  mankind's  deadliest  foe!  'T  was 
the  Devil  sure  that  blinded  us!  —  Well,  as  I  was 
telling  you,  Master  Carthew  rode  a  part  of  the  way. 
Then,  having  seen  them  well  started,  he  turns  his 
horse,  meaning  to  go  first  to  Master  Clement's  to 
consult  about  having  a  commission  named,  before 
the  next  assize,  to  look  into  a  many  things  that  have 
happened  about  Hawthorn,  some  in  connection  with 
the  leech  and  some  by  themselves  —  and  then  to 
ride  from  the  minister's  home  to  Carthew  House. 
It  was  stormy  as  we  know,  the  kind  of  hot  and  dark 
storm  they  say  witches  brew.  He  was  riding,  looking 
straight  before  him,  and  thinking  what  a  darkness 
like  the  darkness  of  the  sky  was  over  England,  when 
what  does  his  horse  do  but  start  aside  and  begin  to 
rear  and  plunge  —  and  yet  there  was  nothing  there  I 
It  lightened,  and  the  road  on  all  sides  lay  bare.  And 
yet,  in  an  instant,  just  like  that!  Master  Carthew 

20 1 


THE  WITCH 

was  struck  in  the  side  and  wounded  as  by  a  sword 
or  dagger.  It  lightened  again  and  he  had  time  to  see 
a  tall  black  man  dressed,  bit  for  bit,  like  the  leech, 
—  and  it  lightened  the  third  time  and  the  road  was 
bare  as  a  blade,  only  he  saw  on  the  top  of  a  bank  a 
figure  like  a  woman  making  signs  to  the  sky.  Then 
it  fell  dark,  and  there  burst  a  great  roar  of  thunder 
and  wind  and  the  horse  began  to  run.  He  checked 
it  just  outside  Hawthorn  and  rode  around  by  Old 
Path  and  the  fields,  for  he  felt  himself  bleeding  and 
did  not  wish  to  frighten  people.  So,  going  slowly, 
.he  got  home  at  last,  and  they  laid  him  in  bed  and 
found  a  great  wound  in  his  side.  .  .  .  Joan!" 

"Will  he  die?  "said  Joan. 

"And  will  you  be  glad  if  he  does?  .  .  .  Wench, 
wench,  why  do  you  look  like  that?" 

The  old  man  and  she  faced  each  other,  between 
them  but  a  narrow  space  of  the  forest  road.  Her 
face  was  mobile,  transparent,  —  a  clear  window 
through  which  much  of  her  nature  might  be  read. 
She  had  never  thought  to  try  to  veil  it  —  never 
until  of  late.  It  was,  on  the  whole,  a  strong  and 
beautiful  nature,  and  none  had  quarrelled  with  the 
face  that  was  its  window.  But  of  late  there  had 
come  into  her  life  to  work  her  injury  something 
bitter,  poisonous,  and  dark.  Fear  and  hatred  had 
come,  and  a  burning  wrath  against  the  net  that  was 
weaving,  she  knew  not  how  —  a  wrath  and  helpless- 
ness and  a  wrath  against  her  helplessness.  All  her 
nature  flamed  against  a  lie  and  an  injustice.  And 

202 


NEXT  DAY 

because  she  had  known  so  little  fear,  and  when  it 
came  it  found  it  hard  to  make  an  entry,  so  it  worked 
like  poison  when  it  was  within  the  citadel.  It  was 
the  foe  she  liked  least ;  all  her  being  rose  and  wrought 
to  cast  it  out.  But  it  was  giving  her  a  fight  —  it 
was  giving  her  a  fight.  .  .  ."And  nowadays  she  had 
to  try  not  to  show  what  she  thought  or  felt.  Some- 
times, by  force  of  wit  and  will,  she  succeeded,  keep- 
ing her  soul  back  from  the  window  of  her  face.  She 
was  not  succeeding  now,  she  felt.  She  bit  her  lips, 
she  struggled,  she  turned  her  face  from  Goodman 
Cole,  and  stood^  her  hands  closing  and  unclosing, 
then,  the  victory  won,  but  too  late  to  save  her  with 
him,  she  turned  upon  him  a  quiet  face. 

It  was  too  late.  A  good  old  man,  but  simple  and 
superstitious,  he  was  staring  at  her  with  a  misliking 
and  terror  of  his  own. 

" I'd  heard  tales,  but  I  would  n't  believe  any  real 
harm  of  Heron's  daughter,  —  but  God  knows  what 
to  think  when  a  woman  looks  like  that ! ' '  He  edged 
from  her,  his  hand  trembled  upon  his  staff;  he 
would  evidently  put  distance  between  them,  be  gone 
on  his  way.  ''The  minister  saith  that  from  the 
Witch  of  Endor  on  they  have  baleful  eyes  — " 

He  suddenly  put  himself  in  motion.  "Good-day 
to  you!"  he  said  in  a  quavering  voice,  and  went  on 
down  the  road  with  a  more  rapid  step  than  was  his 
wont. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

MASTER   THOMAS   CLEMENT 

Two  magistrates  and  certain  of  the  clergy  of  the 
town,  Justice  Carthew  and  Master  Thomas  Clement 
from  Hawthorn,  sat  in  consultation  in  a  room  open- 
ing from  the  hall  of  assizes.  Court  was  not  sitting 
—  it  lacked  a  month  and  more  of  the  time  when 
judges  on  circuit  would  appear  and  make  a  gaol  de- 
livery. In  the  mean  time  a  precognition  was  to  be 
prepared.  The  case  was  diabolical  and  aggravated, 
involving  as  it  did  apostasy,  idolatry,  blasphemy, 
and  sorcery  of  a  dye  most  villanous.  Evidence 
should  not  lack,  witnesses  must  abound.  On  the 
main  counts  of  apostasy  and  blasphemy  the  prisoner 
was  himself  convict  by  himself.  He  had  been 
brought  from  the  prison  hard  by  to  this  room  for 
examination,  and  the  clergy  had  questioned  him. 
But  no  pressure  or  cunning  questions  would  make 
him  confess  idolatry  or  sorcery  or  the  procuring  of 
Master  Harry  Carthew 's  wound. 

The  clerk  wrote  down  what  they  had  —  Master 
Clement's  evidence  and  Squire  Carthew's,  together 
with  the  evidence  they  had  gathered  from  others 
at  Hawthorn,  the  clergy's  questions  and  the  prison- 
er's answers.  He  copied  also  Master  Harry  Car- 
thew's  written  testimony,  Master  Carthew  himself 

204 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

being  still  in  bed,  fevered  of  his  wound.  There  was 
enough  and  many  times  enough  for  the  physician's 
commitment  and  most  close  confinement  until 
assize  day  —  enough  to  warrant  what  Carthew  and 
the  clergy  urged,  a  petition  to  the  Privy  Council 
that  there  be  especially  sent*  a  certain  judge  known 
and  belauded  for  his  strict  handling  of  such  offences, 
and  that,  pending  assizes,  a  commission  be  named  to 
take  depositions  and  make  sweeping  examination 
throughout  the  Hawthorn  end  of  the  county  — 
seeing  that  Satan  had  rarely  just  one  in  his  court. 
Indeed,  there  were  signs  in  many  directions  of  a 
hellish  activity,  whether  in  pact  with  the  leech  or 
independent  of  him  remained  to  be  discovered. 
Hawthorn  mentioned  the  afflicted  child  at  North- 
End  Farm,  the  great  number  of  lamed  animals,  a 
barn  consumed  to  ashes,  and  the  hailstorm  that  had 
cut  the  young  wheat. 

"A  woman  was  seen  by  Master  Harry  Carthew?  " 
The  squire  nodded.    "Aye.    Moreover,  this  long 
time  Mother  Spuraway  has  been  suspect." 

The  minister  of  Hawthorn  sat,  a  small,  rigid, 
black  figure,  his  hands  clasped  upon  the  board  be- 
fore him,  his  light-hued,  intense  eyes  seeing  always 
one  fixed  vision.  His  voice  was  unexpectedly  power- 
ful, though  of  a  rigid  quality  and  inclined  to  sing- 
song. "  My  mind  is  not  made  up  as  to  what  brought 
the  plague  to  Hawthorn  and  the  region  north.  But 
I  hold  it  full  likely  that  Satan  was  concerned  to 
harass  a  godly  and  innocent  people,  godly  beyond 

205 


THE  WITCH 

many  in  England,  if  I  say  it  that  perhaps  should 
not !  It  is  well  known  and  abundantly  proved  that 
his  imps  and  ministers,  his  infidels,  Sadducees,  and 
witches  go  about  to  construct  a  pestilence  no  less 
readily  than  they  do  a  hailstorm  or  a  tempest  that 
miserably  sinks  a  ship  at  sea.  I  would  have  the  com- 
mission take  evidence  upon  that  point  also  — " 

The  clerk,  a  thin,  stooping,  humble  man,  slightly 
coughed,  then  spoke  deprecatingly.  "  If  I  may  make 
so  bold,  your  worships  —  the  prisoner  hath  a  man- 
ner of  good  reputation  among  some  in  this  town. 
He  came  during  the  plague  and  healed  many." 

"Aye,  so?"  answered  Justice  Carthew.  " About 
Hawthorn  also  may  be  found  a  few  silly  folk  who 
would  praise  him,  though  none  I  think  will  praise 
him  who  were  at  church  last  Sunday!  But  this  cargo 
of  damnable  stuff  we  Ve  found  will  beat  down  their 
good  opinion." 

"The  unsafest  thing,"  said  a  fellow  justice,  and 
nodded  portentously,  —  "the  unsafest  thing  a  plain 
man  can  do  is  to  think  and  speak  well  of  a  heretic." 

And  with  that  serving-men  from  the  Boar's  Head 
near  by  entered,  bearing  a  collation  for  the  magis- 
trates and  clergy  assembled.  .  .  . 

Late  in  the  afternoon  the  men  from  Hawthorn 
returned  home.  Squire  Carthew  rode  with  pursed 
lips,  ponderously  on  to  Carthew  House.  But  the 
minister  refused  an  invitation  to  accompany  him. 
He  wished  to  consider  these  matters  in  his  closet, 
alone  with  the  Scriptures  and  in  prayer.  He  put  up 

206 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

his  horse  and  went  into  his  small,  chill  house.  There 
lived  with  him  an  aunt  and  one  maidservant,  and, 
it  being  late,  they  had  his  supper  spread  and  waiting. 
But  he  would  not  touch  the  food;  he  had  ordained 
for  himself  a  fast. 

With  a  candle  in  his  hand  he  went  into  his  small 
bare  room  and  closed  the  door.  Cloak  and  hat  laid 
aside,  he  appeared  slight  and  spare  and  sad-coloured, 
a  man  as  intensely  in  earnest  as  might  well  be;  a 
man,  as  far  as  his  conscious  knowledge  of  himself 
could  light  the  vaults  and  caverns,  sincere  and  of  an 
undivided  will  to  the  service  and  glory  of  his  God. 
On  the  table  lay  his  Bible,  open;  from  wall  to  wall 
stretched  a  space  of  bare  floor  good  for  slow-pacing 
to  and  fro,  good  for  kneeling,  for  wrestling  in  prayer. 
The  room  was  haunted  to  him ;  it  had  seen  so  many 
of  what  he  and  all  his  day,  and  days  before  and  days, 
after,  called  "spiritual  struggles."  But  there  was 
pleasure  no  less  than  gloom  and  exaltation  in  the 
haunting;  there  were  emanations  from  the  walls  of 
triumph,  for  though  his  soul  agonized  he  was  bold 
to  believe  that  also  it  conquered.  He  believed  that 
he  was  foe  of  Satan  and  henchman  of  the  Lord. 

Terror  at  times  overwhelmed  the  henchman  — 
panic  thoughts  that  Satan  had  him ;  cold  and  awful 
doubts  of  his  acceptability  to  his  overlord.  But 
they  were  not  lasting ;  they  went  away  like  the  chill 
mists  from  the  face  of  the  hills.  It  was  incredible,  it 
was  impossible  that  the  Lord  would  not  see  his  own 
banner,  would  not  recognize  and  succour  his  own 

207 


THE  WITCH 

liegeman !  The  liegeman  might  err  and  come  under 
displeasure;  good!  the  punishment  came  in  agony 
and  remorse  for  lukewarm  zeal,  in  a  shown  sight  of 
the  evil  lord  to  whose  suzerainty  he  might  be  trans- 
ferred and  of  that  lord's  dismal  and  horrible  de- 
mesne! Nay,  more  solemnly  and  threateningly,  in 
an  allowed  vision  of  what  a  disobedient  liegeman 
would  forfeit  —  the  heavens  opening  and  showing 
the  rainbow-circled  throne,  the  seven  lamps,  the  sea 
of  glass,  the  winged  beasts  saying,  "Holy,  Holy, 
Holy!"  and  giving  glory  and  honour  and  thanks; 
the  four- and- twenty  elders  crowned  with  gold,  fall- 
ing down  and  worshipping  Him  who  sat  on  the 
Throne;  the  streets  of  gold,  and  the  twelve  gates, 
and  the  temple  open  in  heaven,  and  in  the  temple 
the  ark  of  the  testament.  "O  God,"  prayed  the 
minister,  "take  not  my  name  from  the  book  of  life! 
Take  not  my  name  from  the  book  of  life,  and  I  will 
serve  thee  forever  and  ever!" 

Master  Clement  very  truly  worshipped  the  God 
whom  he  had  seated  on  the  throne,  and  was  jealous 
for  his  honour  and  glory  and  solicitous  for  his  praise 
among  men,  and  would  give  life  itself  to  bring  all 
mankind  under  his  Lord's  supremacy.  As  little  as 
any  man-at-war  of  an  earthly  feudal  suzerain  would 
he  have  hesitated  to  compel  them  to  come  in.  Was 
it  not  to  their  endless,  boundless  good,  and  without 
was  there  any  other  thing  than  hell  eternal  and  ever- 
lasting and  the  evil  lord?  If,  contumaciously,  they 
would  not  come  in,  or  if  being  in  they  rebelled  and 

208 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

broke  from  their  allegiance,  what  else  was  to  be 
done  but  to  carry  fire  and  sword  —  that  is,  to  put 
into  operation  the  laws  of  the  land  —  against  his 
Lord's  enemies?  Had  any  one  called  his  attention 
to  the  fact  of  how  largely  liegemen  like  himself  had 
brought  these  laws  into  being,  he  would  have  an- 
swered, Yes;  under  the  direction  of  their  Suzerain's 
own  Word,  writ  down  for  their  perpetual  guidance, 
shortly  after  the  making  of  the  world ! 

It  was  not  alone  eager  jealousy  for  his  Lord  s 
glory  and  honour,  nor  anxious  care  that  he  himself 
prove  in  no  wise  an  idle  and  unprofitable  servant, 
that  was  felt  by  Master  Clement.  To  his  intense 
zeal  and  his  own  cries  for  life  eternal  was  added  a 
thwart  love  of  mankind  —  that  portion  of  it  en- 
closed in  the  great  sheepfold,  and  that  portion  who, 
wandering  outside,  lost  upon  the  mountain-sides 
in  the  cold  and  darkness,  yet  had  in  them  no  stub- 
bornness, but  would  hasten  to  the  fold  so  soon  as 
they  heard  the  shepherd's  voice  through  the  mist. 
He  was  eager  for  them,  his  brothers  and  children  in 
the  fold;  eager,  too,  for  the  poor  lost  souls  upon  the 
mountains,  —  lost,  yet  not  wilfully,  stubbornly,  and 
abandonedly  lost,  but  capable  of  being  found  and  re- 
gained, so  many  as  were  elected. 

But  the  others,  ah,  the  others!  they  who  set  up 
their  own  wills  and  professed  other  knowledge,  or, 
if  not  knowledge,  then  doubt  and  scepticism  of  the 
liegeman's  knowledge,  writing  a  question  mark  be- 
side that  which  was  not  to  be  questioned  —  they  who 

209 


THE  WITCH 

moved  away  from  the  fold  in  its  completeness! 
Master  Clement's  zeal  flared  downward  no  less  than 
upward,  to  the  left  no  less  than  to  the  right.  He 
hated  with  intensity  —  with  the  greater  intensity 
that  he  was  so  sure  his  hatred  was  disinterested. 
"Have  I  not  hated  Thy  enemies?"  But  if  those 
without  were  manifestly  rather  than  invisibly  of  the 
Kingdom  of  Satan,  —  if  their  ill-doing  was  so  great 
that  it  became  as  it  were  corporeal,  —  if  the  people 
saw  them  open  atheists,  wizards,  and  witches,  — 
if  their  foot  had  slipped  or  their  master  had  been 
negligent  to  cover  them  with  his  mantle  of  darkness, 
—  the  soul  of  Master  Clement  experienced  a  grim 
and  deadly  exaltation.  He  tightened  his  belt,  he 
saw  that  his  axe  was  sharp,  he  went  forth  to  hew 
the  dead  and  poisoned  wood  out  of  the  forest  of  the 
Lord. 

In  his  small  room  he  sat  and  read  by  his  one 
candle  —  read  those  portions  of  the  Old  Testament 
and  the  New  which  he  wished  to  read.  Had  a  spirit 
queried  his  choice  he  would  have  answered,  "Is  it 
not  all  his  Word?  And  are  not  these  the  indicated 
circumstances  and  this  very  passage  the  Answer 
and  Direction?"  When  he  had  finished  reading  he 
knelt  and  prayed  long  and  fervently.  His  prayer 
told  his  God  who  He  was,  his  attributes,  and  what 
was  his  usual  and  expected  conduct;  it  told  Him 
who  were  his  enemies  and  rehearsed  the  nature 
of  the  ill  they  would  do  Him;  then  changed  to 
a  vehement  petition  that  if  it  was  his  will  He 

210 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

would  discover  his  enemies  and  bring  them  to  con- 
fusion —  and  if  by  means  of  the  worm  Thomas 
Clement  — 

He  prayed  in  terrible  earnest,  his  hands  locking  and 
unlocking,  beads  of  sweat  upon  his  brow,  prayed 
for  the  better  part  of  an  hour.  Finally  he  rose  from 
his  knees,  and  standing  by  the  table  read  yet  another 
passage,  then  paced  the  floor,  then  sat  down,  and, 
drawing  forth  the  tablets  upon  which  he  had  made 
his  own  notes  of  the  examination  that  day,  fell  to 
studying  them,  the  open  book  yet  beside  him. 

He  read  over  a  list  of  questions  with  the  answers 
Aderhold  had  given.  He  had  not  been  quick  to  give 
the  answers — he  had  fenced  —  he  had  striven  to  shift 
the  ground  —  but  at  last,  with  a  desperate  quietness, 
he  had  given  them. 

Qu.  Do  you  believe  in  God? 

Ans.  In  my  sense,  yes.    In  your  sense,  no. 

Qu.  In  God  as  Father,  Son,  and  Holy  Ghost? 

Ans.  No. 

Qu.  Then  you  do  not  believe  in  the  Trinity? 

Ans.  No. 

There  were  other  questions  —  a  number  of  them 
—  and  the  answers.  But  the  very  beginning  Was 
enough  —  enough.  Master  Clement,  sitting  rigidly, 
stared  at  the  opposite  wall.  A  sentence  formed  itself 
clearly  before  his  eyes,  the  letters  well  made,  of  a 
red  colour.  Only  the  last  of  the  three  words  wav- 
ered a  little.  CONVICTED  AND  HANGED.  Or 
it  might  be  CONVICTED  AND  BURNED.  The 

211 


THE  WITCH 

first  two  words  stood  steady,  and  above  them  the 
name,  GILBERT  ADERHOLD. 

The  concern  was  now  to  prove  the  sorcery  —  and 
to  take  all  confederates  in  the  net  —  to  lop  Satan 
in  all  his  members. 

The  minister  stared  at  the  wall.  Another  name 
formed  itself  as  though  it  were  stained  there  — 
MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

Master  Clement  sat  rigid,  trying  to  place  other 
names  beside  this  one.  It  was  his  sincere  belief  that 
there  were  others.  The  probable  diabolical  activities 
at  the  Oak  Grange  —  the  coming  to  Hawthorn,  after 
so  long  and  godly  an  immunity,  of  the  late  sickness  — 
the  varied  and  mysterious  happenings,  losses,  and 
attacks  with  which  village  and  countryside  were 
beginning  to  buzz  —  this  final  heinous  Satan-revenge 
and  attempt  upon  the  godliest  and  most  greatly 
promising  young  man  of  whom  he  had  any  knowl- 
edge—  back  again,  and  above  all,  to  the  blasphemer, 
the  atheist,  the  idolater,  and  denier  now  fast  in 
gaol!  —  Master  Clement  was  firm  in  his  belief  that 
so  frightful  and  important  a  round  of  occurrences 
pointed  to  many  and  prime  agents  of  evil,  though 
always  that  unbeliever  yonder  would  prove  the  ring- 
leader, the  very  lieutenant  of  Satan  himself !  Haw- 
thorn made  a  narrow  stage  for  such  a  determined 
and  concentrated  presence  and  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air.  But  Master 
Clement's  was  a  narrow  experience  and  a  mind  of 
one  province.  To  him,  truly,  the  stage  seemed  of 

212 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

the  widest,  and  the  quarry  worthy  Apollyon's  pres- 
ence in  person. 

The  atheist  and  sorcerer  himself  —  Mother  Spur- 
away —  who  else?  The  minister  thought  of  old 
Dorothy  at  the  Grange.  There  existed  a  presup- 
position of  contamination.  On  the  other  hand,  so 
far  as  he  knew,  there  had  never  gone  out  a  word 
against  her;  she  had  seemed  a  pious,  harmless  soul, 
trudging  to  church  in  all  weathers.  That  in  itself, 
though,  the  Devil  was  wont  to  use  as  a  mask. 
Witness  the  atheist  and  sorcerer  at  church!  Nay, 
was  it  not  known  that  sometimes  Satan  came  him- 
self to  listen  and  to  confound,  if  he  might,  the 
preacher,  making  him  tame  and  cold  in  his  dis- 
course; or  razing  from  his  memory  that  which  he 
had  carefully  prepared;  or  putting  into  his  mind, 
even  while  he  preached,  worldly  and  wicked  and 
satiric  thoughts;  or  during  a  sermon  of  so  great 
power  that  all  who  heard  should  be  lifted  to  the 
courts  of  heaven,  stuffing  the  mind  of  the  congrega- 
tion with  a  like  gallimaufrey? 

The  minister  sat  stiffly,  staring  at  the  wall.  Doro- 
thy's name  did  not  form  itself  there  before  him,  but 
neither  did  he  wholly  dismiss  it  from  mind.  He  put 
it,  as  it  were,  on  the  wall  at  right  angles,  marked, 
"  To  be  further  thought  on."  Then  what  other  name 
or  names  for  the  main  wall?  .  .  .  Old  Marget  Prim- 
rose was  dead.  He  thought  of  two  or  three  old 
and  solitary  women,  and  of  the  son  of  one  of  the 
Grange  tenants  —  a  silent  and  company-shunning 

213 


THE  WITCH 

youth  who  had  gotten  his  letters  somehow,  and  went 
dreaming  through  the  woods  with  a  book.  Once 
Master  Clement,  meeting  him  by  the  stream-side, 
had  taken  his  book  from  him  and  looking  at  it  found 
it  naught  but  idle  verse ;  moreover,  it  seemed  that 
it  was  Master  Gilbert  Aderhold's  book,  and  that 
the  youth  went  at  times  to  the  Grange  for  instruc- 
tion. .  .  .  All  these,  the  boy  with  the  itch  for  learn- 
ing, and  the  two  or  three  women  he  relegated  to  the 
wall  with  old  Dorothy. 

There  was  one  other  —  there  was  Grace  May- 
bank.  She  was  not  old,  but  Satan,  though  for  occult 
reasons  he  oftenest  signed  them  old,  signed  them 
young  as  well,  and  though  he  gave  preferment  to 
the  ugly  and  the  bent,  would  take  good  looks  when 
they  were  at  hand.  Satan  had  already  signed  Grace 
in  another  department  of  the  Kingdom  of  Evil-doing. 
The  minister  rose,  and  going  to  a  press  that  stood 
in  the  room,  took  from  it  a  book  in  which  was  en- 
tered, among  other  things,  cases  of  church  discipline. 
He  found  the  page,  the  date  several  years  back. 
Grace  Maybank,  Fornicatress.  Stood  before  the  con- 
gregation, two  Sundays  in  each  month  for  three  months 
in  succession.  Texts  preached  from  on  these  Sundays, 
for  the  warning  of  sinners.  .  .  .  And  again,  Grace 
Maybank,  her  infant  being  born,  stood  with  it  in  her 
arms  before  the  congregation,  Sunday,  June  the . 

Grace  came  into  the  probable  class.  Moreover  — 
"Ha!"  said  the  minister,  recollection  rising  to  the 
surface.  He  took  from  a  second  shelf  a  book  of 

214 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

record,  made  not  by  himself,  but  by  his  predecessor, 
the  godly  Master  Thomson.  It  ran  back  twenty 
years  and  more.  He  found  near  the  beginning  of 
the  book  what  he  was  looking  for.  Ellice  Maybank. 
Suspect  of  being  a  witch,  and  dragged  through  Haw- 
thorn Pond.  The  said  Ellice  swam.  Died  of  a  fever 
before  she  could  be  brought  to  trial. 

"Ha!"  said  Master  Clement;  "it  descends!  it  de- 
scends!" But  he  was  a  careful  and  scrupulous  man, 
and  so  he  put  Grace's  name  only  up  on  the  proba- 
ble wall. 

It  was  growing  late.  A  wind  had  arisen  and 
moaned  around  the  house.  He  went  to  the  window 
and  looked  out  at  the  church  and  the  church  yews. 
A  waning  moon  hung  in  the  east.  The  yews  were 
black,  the  church  was  palely  silvered;  Master 
Clement  regarded  the  church  with  eyes  that  soft- 
ened, grew  almost  mild.  The  plain  interior,  the 
plain  exterior,  the  hard  stones,  the  tower  lifting 
squarely  and  uncompromisingly  toward  the  span 
of  sky  that  was  called  the  zenith  —  whatever  of 
romance  was  in  Master  Clement's  nature  clung  and 
centred  itself  here!  Hawthorn  Church  was  his  be- 
loved, it  was  his  bride. 

He  stood  by  the  window  for  some  minutes,  then 
turning  began  again  to  pace  the  roonVand  then  once 
more  to  read  in  the  Bible.  It  chanced  now  —  his 
main  readings  that  night  having  been  concluded  — 
that  he  had  eyes  for  passages  of  a  different  timbre. 
He  read  words  of  old,  firm  wisdom,  Oriental  tender- 

215 


THE  WITCH 

ness,  mystic  rapture,  strainings  toward  unity  — 
golden  words  that  time  would  not  willingly  let  slip. 
Many  a  soul,  many  a  tradition,  many  a  mind  had 
left  their  mark  in  that  book,  and  some  were  very 
beautiful,  and  the  voices  of  some  were  music  and 
long-lasting  truth  and  carried  like  trumpets. 

Master  Clement  read,  and  his  soul  mounted:  only 
it  mounted  not  to  where  it  could  overlook  the  earlier 
reading  in  the  same  Bible.  It  never  came  to  a  point 
where  it  could  hold  the  two  side  by  side  and  say, 
"  Judge  you  which  concept  and  which  mind  you  will 
accept  as  brother  to  your  own!  For  many  minds 
have  made  this  book."  Master  Clement  read,  and 
his  soul  lightened  and  lifted,  but  not  so  far  as  to 
change  settled  perspectives.  Had  he  not  read  these 
passages  a  thousand  times  before?  The  names  re- 
mained upon  the  wall,  and  when  after  a  time  he 
undressed  and  laid  himself  in  bed,  they  stayed  be- 
fore him  without  a  shadow  of  wavering  until  he 
slept.  Indeed,  he  drowsed  away  upon  the  word 
CONVICTED  — 

Morning  came.  He  rose  at  an  ascetic's  hour, 
dressed  in  a  half-light,  and  ate  his  frugal  breakfast 
while  the  day  was  yet  at  the  dawn.  The  two  women 
waited  upon  him ;  breakfast  over,  he  read  the  Scrip- 
tures to  them,  and  standing,  prayed  above  their 
bowed  heads.  Later  he  went  out  into  the  hedged 
path  between  his  house  and  the  church  and  began 
his  customary  slow  walking  to  and  fro  for  morning 
exercise.  The  sun  was  coming  up,  a  multitude  of 

216 


MASTER  THOMAS  CLEMENT 

birds  sang  in  the  ancient  trees.  Master  Clement 
walked,  small,  arid,  meagre,  and  upright,  his  hands 
at  his  sides,  and  presently,  in  his  walking,  caught 
sight  of  something  white  at  the  edge  of  the  path.  It 
proved  to  be  a  hand's-breadth  of  paper,  kept  in 
place  by  a  pebble.  He  stooped  and  picked  it  up.  On 
it  was  marked  in  rude  letters,  JOAN  HERON.  He 
turned  it  over  —  nothing  on  the  other  side,  blank 
paper  save  for  the  name.  He  walked  on  with  it  in 
his  hand.  Twenty  paces  farther  there  was  another 
piece  of  paper,  held  by  another  pebble,  and  a  fair  du- 
plicate of  the  first  —  JOAN  HERON.  Well  within 
the  churchyard  he  found  the  third  piece  —  JOAN 
HERON.  ASK  JOAN  HERON  WHO  GAVE 
HER  THE  RUE  THAT'S  PLANTED  IN  HER 
GARDEN. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

MOTHER   SPURAWAY 

MASTER  CLEMENT,  the  papers  in  his  hand,  retraced 
his  steps  until  he  came  to  a  bench  set  in  the  shadow 
of  a  yew  that  knotted  the  minister's  house  and  gar- 
den to  the  churchyard.  He  sat  down  and  spread  the 
three  out  upon  the  wood  beside  him.  It  was  the  last- 
found  scrap  upon  which,  naturally,  he  concentrated 
attention.  ASK  JOAN  HERON  WHO  GAVE  HER 
THE  RUE  THAT'S  PLANTED  IN  HER  GAR- 
DEN. He  sat  with  knitted  brow  and  pursed  lips, 
searching  for  a  meaning.  One  was  not  there  at  first 
sight.  He  weighed  the  words.  JOAN  HERON  — 
The  daughter  of  old  Heron  that  had  died  of  the 
plague.  He  brought  her  before  his  mind's  eye  —  a 
tall,  grey-eyed  girl  sitting  quietly  in  church.  Save 
for  that  image  she  did  not  come  into  his  mind  with 
any  force;  he  had,  after  all,  no  great  knowledge  of 
her.  They  were  outlying  people,  the  Herons,  and 
then  they  had  been  away  from  Hawthorn.  He  was  a 
man  of  the  study  and  the  pulpit  and  of  crisises  in 
the  parish,  rather  than  of  any  minute,  loving,  daily 
intercourse  and  knowledge;  theologian  rather  than 
pastor.  JOAN  HERON.  He  would,  however, 
presently  think  together  any  impressions  or  mem- 
ories. Now  little  occurred  further  than  that  she 

218 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

had  been  away  with  her  father  for  years,  living 
under  the  walls  of  the  castle  that  was  prelatical. 
In  addition,  he  remembered  that  neither  old  Roger 
Heron  nor  this  girl  had  ever  brought  to  him  spiritual 
problems  to  be  solved.  Many  did  bring  them  —  cold, 
creeping  doubts  as  to  whetfrer  God  really  meant  to 
save  them  or  not.  But  the  Herons  had  never  done 
so.  The  fact,  called  to  mind,  just  faintly  darkened 
for  him  the  name  beneath  his  hand.  He  would 
make  enquiries.  —  WHO  GAVE  HER  THE  RUE 
THAT'S  PLANTED  IN  HER  GARDEN. 

Master  Clement  frowned.  He  had  little  taste  for 
riddles  and  uncertainties  and  haunting  suspensions 
of  thought.  Make  a  line  distinct;  colour  matters 
plainly ;  if  a  thing  were  black,  paint  it  in  black !  The 
words  on  the  paper  carried  no  meaning,  or  a  foolish 
one.  RUE.  .  .  .  Not  long  before  he  had  been  reading 
an  account,  set  forth  in  a  book,  of  a  number  of 
Satan's  machinations,  and  of  the  devices,  likings, 
and  small  personal  habits  of  his  sworn  servants.  A 
bit  of  this  text  suddenly  sprang  out  before  him,  sit- 
ting there  beneath  the  yew  tree.  "For  plants  — 
hemlock,  poppy,  and  mandrake,  and,  especially,  the 
witches  love,  handle,  and  give  to  such  as  show  inclina- 
tion to  become  of  their  company,  rue  — " 

Master  Clement  slowly  folded  the  three  pieces  of 
paper  together,  took  out  his  pocketbook,  and  laid 
them  in  it.  Grace  May  bank  was  yet  strongly  in  his 
mind,  but  now  on  the  wall  beside  her  name  he  put 
another  name. 

219 


THE  WITCH 

A  little  later,  hatted  and  cloaked,  he  stepped  into 
Hawthorn  street.  As  he  did  so  he  looked  north- 
ward and,  seeing  Squire  Carthew  riding  in  from 
Carthew  House,  stood  and  waited.  The  squire  ap- 
proached, gave  good-morning,  and  dismounted.  He 
nodded  his  head;  ponderously  energetic  he  had  put 
already  his  engines  into  motion.  The  constable  with 
helpers  was  gone  at  sunrise  to  take  into  custody 
Mother  Spuraway,  have  her  into  the  village,  and 
thrust  her  into  the  room  beneath  the  sexton's  house 
that  did  for  village  gaol.  To-morrow,  after  examina- 
tion, and  if  proof  of  her  evil-doing  were  forthcoming, 
she  should  be  sent  to  town  and  quartered  in  the 
prison  with  the  leech.  Orders  likewise  had  been  given 
to  the  North-End  Farm  folk  to  bring  into  Hawthorn 
the  afflicted  boy.  To  confront  the  injurer  with  the 
injured,  that  was  the  best  and  approved  way  — 

"How  is  Harry  Carthew  this  morning?" 

"Very  fevered  still.  He  talks  strangely  and  pa- 
ganly  —  about  gods  and  goddesses  and  Love  and 
the  Furies  and  I  know  not  what  trash." 

"Ah!"  said  Master  Clement.  "Were  it  devil  or 
Gilbert  Aderhold  who  struck  him  that  night,  be  sure 
from  the  dagger  would  have  run  Satan's  own  venom, 
empoisoning  the  mind,  bringing  growth  of  nettles 
and  darnel  into  the  soul!  The  godly  young  man!  I 
will  pray  —  I  will  wrestle  with  God  in  prayer  for 
Harry  Carthew — " 

From  beyond  the  church  there  burst  a  small  riot  of 
sound.  "They've  got  Mother  Spuraway  —  " 

220 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

The  constable  had  his  hand  upon  the  old  woman's 
arm  and  dragged  her  along,  she  being  lame  and 
stumbling.  Behind  them  marched  the  constable's 
helpers,  a  self-constituted  posse.  Here  was  the 
father  of  the  afflicted  boy,  and  Lukin  the  carter,  and 
a  ditcher  whose  arm  was  palsied,  and  one  or  two 
others.  A  dozen  boys  brought  up  the  rear.  One  had 
run  ahead  to  cry  to  the  village  what  was  happening. 
Everybody  was  coming  to  door  and  window,  out  of 
doors,  into  the  street.  Voices  buzzed  and  clacked. 
The  witch  fever  was  mounting,  mounting,  hardening 
the  heart,  confusing  the  head! 

When  Mother  Spuraway  saw  the  minister  and  the 
squire,  for  all  she  was  as  old  and  spare  and  feeble  as  a 
dried  reed,  she  broke  from  the  constable,  and,  run- 
ning to  them,  fell  upon  her  knees  and  raising  her 
clasped  hands  began  at  once  to  protest  her  inno- 
cence and  to  beg  for  mercy. 

The  squire  spoke  to  the  North  End  farmer. 
"  They  're  bringing  your  son  in?" 

"Aye,  sir.  His  mother  and  sister  and  my  son 
that 's  married  and  his  wife  and  my  niece  and  Hum- 
phrey Tanner.  He 's  twisting  fearful,  and  he  sees  the 
dog  come  day  and  come  night!" 

11  Your  worship,  your  worship!"  cried  the  old  wo- 
man on  her  knees.  "  I  never  could  abide  dogs  —  Is  it 
likely  I  'd  trouble  a  child  ?  —  Oh,  Master  Clement  — ' ' 

The  squire  was  speaking  with  the  constable  and 
the  farmer,  the  whole  company  of  witch-takers 
hearkening  to  him  rather  than  to  Mother  Spuraway. 

221 


THE  WITCH 

Had  she  not  kept  up  a  like  babble  clean  from  her 
own  hut  to  Hawthorn?  But  the  witch  and  straight- 
ening out  the  two  walls  were  Master  Clement's  con- 
cern. Not  always  subtle,  he  was  subtle  when  it  came 
to  playing  the  inquisitor.  When  the  role  fell  to  him,  it 
was  as  though  he  had  suddenly  endued  himself  with 
a  mantle  that  fitted.  Had  he  lived  in  a  Catholic 
country,  had  he  been  born  and  baptized  there  into  an 
unquerying  group,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  sooner  or 
later  he  would  have  found  employment  in  the  Holy 
Office,  unlikelier  yet  that  he  would  not  have  served 
with  zeal  and  a  consciousness  of  high  devoir  done 
that  King  in  heaven.  In  a  vast  range  of  relations 
starkly  literal,  he  was  capable  when  it  came  to  theo- 
logical detection,  of  keen  and  imaginative  work. 
The  churchyard  yews  somewhat  cut  off  the  village 
street;  the  small  present  crowd  were  attending  to 
the  squire.  Master  Clement  put  some  questions. 
Mother  Spuraway,  who  was  now  moaning  and  rock- 
ing herself,  roused  as  best  she  could  to  answer. 
Associates?  She  had  no  associates.  What,  in  God's 
name,  should  she  have  associates  for?  The  leech? 
Well,  the  leech  had  taken  her  trade,  that  was  all  the 
association  there  — 

"Ha!"  said  Master  Clement.  "The  same  trade! 
She  hath  said  that  far!" 

Mother  Spuraway  looked  at  him  and  shrank  af- 
frighted. "My  trade  was  to  gather  good  herbs  and 
make  sick  folk  well.  I  meant  that  I  was  a  leech  as 
well  as  he." 

222 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

"Leechcraft  is  not  for  women,"  answered  Master 
Clement.  "But  leechcraft  was  not  his  main  trade. 
His  trade  is  in  souls  to  Satan,  his  own  soul  and 
others.  I  fear  me  that  thou  art  indentured  to  that 
same  master  and  may  well  speak  of  this  atheist  and 
sorcerer  as  thy  fellow  trafficker !  Tell  me  what  others 
thou  art  concerned  with  — " 

Mother  Spuraway  had  an  inward  sturdiness, 
though  age  and  weakness,  fear  and  pain  might  yet 
betray  it.  "Concerned  neither  with  him  nor  with 
others.  Oh  me!  oh  me!  I've  always  stood  on  my 
own  feet  and  harmed  no  one  —  " 

"They  that  stand  on  their  own  feet  and  by  their 
own  strength,"  said  the  minister,  "are  naught.  So 
they  lean  not  upon  Scripture  and  know  that  they 
are  naught  in  themselves,  but  only  by  grace  of  an- 
other, they  are  already  lost  and  have  reached  their 
hand  to  Satan.  —  Tell  me  if  Grace  May  bank  be  of 
thy  company?" 

"Grace  Maybank!"  Mother  Spuraway 's  voice 
quavered  and  her  frame  seemed  to  shake.  Perhaps 
there  rose  a  memory  of  a  love  philtre  or  charm,  or  of 
Grace  in  trouble,  coming  secretly  for  counsel.  But 
Mother  Spuraway  never  took  life.  The  child  was 
born,  was  it  not?  —  as  merry  and  pretty  a  child  as  if 
it  were  not  set  apart  and  branded  for  life.  Grace? 
It  had  been  little  that  she  had  done  for  Grace!  The 
charm  had  not  worked;  the  man  would  not  offer 
marriage,  and  so  save  Grace  from  what  came  upon 
her.  Grace  herself  had  come  to  the  hut  and  bitterly 

223 


THE  WITCH 

reviled  her  for  a  useless  wise  woman.  Grace  May- 
bank!  She  began  to  stammer  and  protest  that  she 
and  Grace  were  strangers.  —  But  Master  Clement 
thought  the  most  and  the  worst  and  the  impossible. 
"Ha!"  he  said.  "That  window  hath  a  light  in  it!" 
In  his  mind  Grace's  name  left  the  one  wall  and  came 
over  to  the  other. 

The  squire  made  a  movement  from  the  constable, 
the  constable  a  movement  toward  his  prisoner. 
"Tell  me,'*  said  Master  Clement  in  a  tense  and  low 
voice,  —  "tell  me  why  you  gave  a  bush  of  rue  to 
Joan  Heron?" 

He  had  not  known  that  she  had  done  it.  It  had 
flashed  upon  him  to  make  that  move.  Made,  he  saw 
that  it  was  correct. 

Mother  Spuraway,  dazed  and  shaken,  put  up  her 
two  hands  as  though  to  ward  off  blows  that  she 
knew  not  why  were  coming.  ' '  What  harm, ' '  queried 
her  thin  old  frightened  voice,  "in  giving  a  body  a 
sprig  of  rue?  She  had  none  in  her  garden." 

"How  did  the  rue  come  to  you?" 

"It  was  growing  about  the  burned  cot."  For  all 
her  terror  and  misery  Mother  Spuraway  felt  a  gust 
of  anger.  "O  Jesus!  What  questions  Master  Clem- 
ent asks!" 

The  constable  came  and  took  her  by  the  arms. 
"On  with  you!  Don't  say  that  you  can't  walk,  when 
we  know  that  you  can  dance  and  fly!" 

She  broke  again  into  a  pitiful  clamour.  "  I  am  no 
witch !  —  Satan 's  no  friend  nor  master  nor  king 

224 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

of  mine  —  I  know  naught  of  the  leech  —  I  Ve  put 
no  spell  on  any  one  —  Oh,  gentlemen,  gentlemen, 
think  on  the  mother  that  bore  you  — "  The  con- 
stable and  his  helpers  dragged  her  away.  Her  voice 
came  back  —  "Think  —  think!  How  could  I  — " 

In  a  little  while  the  North-End  Farm  folk  came 
into  Hawthorn — Hawthorn  quivering  now  with  ex- 
citement. Every  loss  of  a  twelvemonth,  every  un- 
deserved grief,  every  untoward  happening,  every 
petty  mystery  was  awake  and  growing  monstrous. 
The  air  was  changing,  the  yew  trees,  the  look  of  the 
houses,  the  loom  to  the  west  of  Hawthorn  Forest. 
.  .  .  Today,  to  an  observer,  the  church  might  look 
not  greatly  different  from  a  palm-thatched  or  cedar 
roof  over  some  sacred  stone  or  carven  god.  Out  of 
the  deep  veins,  out  of  the  elder  world,  old  and  gross 
superstition  had  been  whistled  up.  It  had  not  far 
to  come;  the  elder  world  was  close  of  kin.  On  the 
climbing  road  of  the  human  mind  the  scenery  of  the 
lower  slopes  began  to  glow. 

The  sexton's  house  giving  upon  the  green,  Haw- 
thorn could  find  pretext  enough  for  gathering  there 
in  humming  clusters.  The  sexton  had  a  clean,  bare 
room  where  at  times  charges  were  heard  and  pris- 
oners brought  up  for  examination  from  a  cellar-like 
apartment  below.  On  the  whole,  Justice  Carthew 
preferred  it  to  having  poachers  and  vagrants,  quar- 
rellers,  swearers  and  breakers  of  various  command- 
ments, petty  officers,  complainants,  and  witnesses 
trampling  into  Carthew  House.  Now  as  the  warm 

225 


THE  WITCH 

midday  drew  on,  he  entered,  marshalled  by  the  con- 
stable; with  him,  besides  a  young  man  half  his  son's 
tutor,  half  his  own  clerk,  Master  Clement,  and  a 
neighbour  or  two  of  fair  consequence  in  the  village 
and  in  Hawthorn  Church.  In  the  room  already 
were  the  North- End  Farm  folk.  The  crowd  pressed 
in  behind,  or,  when  no  more  were  admitted,  stood 
as  close  as  might  be  without  the  door,  left  open  for 
the  air.  Outside  the  one  crazy  window  boys  stood 
on  heaped  stones,  their  eyes  a- row  above  the  sill. 
The  air  seemed  to  beat  and  sound  and  pulse.  No 
other  kind  of  lawbreaking  could  so  raise,  so  univer- 
salize, emotion.  Other  kinds  were  particular,  affect- 
ing a  few.  But  where  sorcery  and  witchcraft,  blas- 
phemy and  heresy,  were  arraigned,  even  though  it 
were  in  a  poor  room  and  village  like  to  this,  there 
the  universal  enemy,  there  the  personal  foe  of  God 
Almighty,  came  into  court!  The  personal  foe  of 
God  was  naturally  the  would-be  murderer  of  every 
baptized  soul  alive  —  the  unbaptized  were  his  al- 
ready. Nor  did  he  stop  at  attempts  against  their 
souls;  he  did  not  hesitate  to  direct  his  engines 
against  their  bodies  and  their  goods,  to  burn  their 
ricks  and  barns,  blast  their  fields,  palsy  their  arms, 
lame  their  beasts,  make  their  children  peak  and 
pine,  wither  the  strength  of  men  within  them  —  If 
he  had  not  yet  harmed  them  to-day,  he  but  waited 
for  the  chance  to  do  so  to-morrow!  No  man,  woman, 
or  child  was  safe,  and  the  thing  to  be  done  was  to  de- 
stroy his  instruments  as  fast  as  they  were  found. 

226 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

The  North- End  Farm  boy  —  an  observer  from  the 
platform  of  a  further  age  might  have  conjectured 
that  it  was  partly  a  nervous  disorder  marked  by 
hysteria,  partly  an  impish  satisfaction  in  the  commo- 
tion produced  and  the  attention  received,  partly 
an  actual  rejoicing  in  the  workings  of  his  own  imag- 
ination together  with  a  far  past,  early-man  unaware- 
ness  of  any  reason  for  forbearance  —  the  North- 
End  Farm  boy  cried  out  and  writhed  tormentedly. 

They  brought  Mother  Spuraway  up  the  steep 
stair  from  the  cellar  and  into  the  room,  and  making 
a  clear  space  stood  her  before  the  boy  for  what 
should  be  judgement  and  doom.  "The  dog!  the 
dog!"  he  cried,  and  writhed  in  the  arms  of  the  men 
behind  him  —  "The  dog!" 

The  room  quivered  and  sucked  in  its  breath. 
Now  the  magistrate,  and  now,  at  the  magistrate's 
nod,  the  minister,  questioned  him.  "You  see  the 
dog?  —  Where  do  you  see  it?  —  There?  But  some- 
thing else  is  standing  there !  A  woman  is  standing 
there.  .  .  .  Ha!  Only  the  dog  there,  showing  his 
teeth  at  you?  Do  you  see  no  woman?  .  .  .  He  sees 
no  woman.  He  sees  only  the  dog." 

"The  dog!  the  dog!"  cried  the  boy.  "The  con- 
stable brought  the  dog  in  with  him.  .  .  .  Oh,  it 
wants  to  get  at  me!  It's  trying  to  shake  the  con- 
stable off!  Oh,  oh,  don't  let  it!"  And  he  writhed 
and  twisted,  half  terrified  and  persuaded  by  the 
vividness  of  his  own  creation,  deep  down  enjoying 
himself. 

227 


THE  WITCH 

Commotion  and  hard  breathing  held  in  the  room 
and  outside  about  the  door  and  window.  "He  sees 
her  as  she  is  when  she's  running  with  Satan!  .  .  „ 
Witch!  .  .  .  Witch!  .  .  ." 

Mother  Spuraway  fell  again  upon  her  knees,  beat 
her  hands  together  with  passion.  "  It's  not  true  — 
he's  lying!  —  Oh,  sirs,  are  you  going  to  hang  me 
for  what  a  sick  child  says?" 

North- End  Farm  raised  an  answering  clamour. 
"Thou  witch!  'T  is  thou  that  liest!  Take  thy  spells 
off  him!"  The  greater  part  of  the  room  became 
vocal.  "'T  is  not  only  that  boy! — A  many  and  a 
many  things  happening!  —  My  arm,  thou  witch!  I 
dug  all  day,  and  passed  thee  in  the  twilight,  and 
next  day  't  was  like  this !  —  The  corn  so  thin  and 
burned!  —  The  old  witch!  She  made  a  sign  above 
my  wife's  drink  and  she  died  and  the  babe  died ! — 
The  witch!  the  witch!  But  she's  not  alone.  .  .  . 
She  and  the  leech.  .  .  .  Yes,  but  others  than  the 
leech.  .  .  .  There  are  folk  here  who  can  tell.  .  .  . 
The  plague  —  she  brought  the  plague  —  she  and 
the  Devil  and  her. fellows.  .  .  .  The  pond! —  Tie  her 
thumb  and  toe  and  try  her  in  the  water  — " 

There  came  a  surge  forward.  Mother  Spuraway 
cowered  and  screamed.  The  squire  might  not  object 
to  the  water  trial  in  itself,  but  he  objected  and  that 
strongly  to  any  unruliness  before  Justice  Carthew. 
The  people  were  used  to  being  cowed;  his  voice, 
bursting  out  against  them,  drove  them  back  to  a 
silence  broken  only  by  murmurs  and  intakes  of  the 

228 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

breath.  The  North- End  Farm  boy  continuing 
noisy,  and  crying  out,  his  father  and  mother  had 
leave  to  take  him  from  the  sexton's  room  and  across 
to  the  ale-house.  There  was  curiosity  to  see  if  the 
dog  that  was  visible  to  him  alone  could  follow.  But 
no !  At  the  door  he  cried  out  that  it  tried  to  spring 
after  him,  but  could  not  pass  the  minister's  chair. 
From  the  ale-house  itself  presently  came  back  word 
that  he  was  much  comforted  and  quiet  and  said  that 
Master  Clement  was  keeping  the  dog  from  him. 

Mother  Spur  away  sat  on  a  bench,  somewhat  cut 
off  from  the  rest  of  the  room  by  the  heavy  chairs  of 
the  Law  and  the  Church.  She  sat  crouched  to- 
gether, for  the  most  part  silent,  her  white  hair  strag- 
gling from  beneath  her  cap,  her  lip  fallen,  her  meagre, 
bloodless  hands  with  high-raised  veins  plucking  at 
the  stuff  of  her  old  worn  kirtle.  The  day  was  warm. 
The  squire,  heated  and  thirsty,  sent  across  for  a 
tankard  of  ale.  When  it  was  brought,  he  drank,  set 
the  vessel  down,  and  wiped  his  mouth.  "  And  now," 
he  said,  "  't  is  to  find  if,  in  getting  two,  we  get  all  the 
vipers  in  the  nest  —  " 

He  did  not  think  so  himself;  nor  did  Master 
Clement,  nor  did  the  throng  of  Hawthorn  in  the 
sexton's  room  and  without,  pressing  about  door  and 
window.  The  whispers  had  been  continuous.  It  was 
much  to  have  put  an  arresting  hand  upon  one  witch, 
and  beyond  doubt  she  was  a  witch  and  a  vera  causa! 
But  for  more  years  than  a  few  Hawthorn  had  looked 
somewhat  askance  at  Mother  Spuraway.  She  had 

229 


THE  WITCH 

been  among  them  for  a  long  time,  and  these  blackest 
happenings  had  not  happened.  Not  in  all  these 
years  the  plague  —  never  before  at  Hawthorn  such  a 
thing  as  the  bold  wounding  of  the  squire's  brother — 
never  before  so  many  accidents  of  one  kind  and  an- 
other! For  new  activities  new  beings.  .  .  .  The  leech, 
of  course,  proved  beyond  all  seeming  to  be  so  fell 
and  wicked  a  man!  But  not  the  leech  alone.  .  .  . 
The  feeling,  whatever  it  was,  was  increasing.  There 
seemed  something  pent  and  thunderous,  lying  in 
wait  for  its  chance.  .  .  .  There  were  those  now  in  the 
crowd  who  had  not  been  here  earlier,  who,  having 
heard  what  was  toward,  had  made  their  way  in 
after  the  first.  Some  came  from  without  the  village. 
The  tinker  was  plain  to  the  front.  Midway  of  the 
room  might  be  seen  Will  the  smith's  son  and  his 
mother,  and  beside  them  Katherine  Scott,  the  for- 
ester's wife.  At  the  back,  in  company  with  the 
Lukins,  stood  Alison  Inch. 

The  squire  looked  down  at  a  piece  of  paper  which 
he  held  in  his  hand.  "Now  what  is  this  about  a 
grey  and  white  cat,  and  the  burned  cot  in  Haw- 
thorn Wood?  " 

There  rose  a  murmur,  like  wind  over  sedge.  It 
grew  in  volume,  and  out  of  it  came  clear  a  woman's 
voice.  "It's  her  familiar.  He  gave  it  to  her.  The 
boys  saw  him  give  it  to  her  at  the  burned  cot." 

The  squire  lifted  himself  a  little  —  looked  over 
the  crowd.  "Who  spoke  there?  Come  forward  here, 
you  who  spoke!" 

230 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

A  confusion ;  then  Cecily  Lukin  was  pushed  to  the 
front.  She  came  protesting,  her  face  flushed.  "Oh, 
Your  Honour,  I  did  n't  know  I  was  speaking  so 
loud!  I  never  meant  to  say  anything — " 

"Nay,  you  must  say,"  answered  the  squire.  "He 
or  she  who  keeps  witness  back  will  find  trouble  for 
their  own  part!" 

"I  said  naught,"  said  Cecily,  "but  that  she  had 
a  grey  and  white  cat  which  lay  on  the  hearth  or  in 
the  sun,  and  that  once  I  did  see  it  anger  itself  and 
grow  larger  than  natural,  and  its  eyes  glowed  like  Ian- 
thorns  and  it  went  backward,  rubbing  itself  against 
her  skirt— " 

"Mother  Spuraway's  skirt?" 

"Oh,  no,  sir!"  said  Cecily.  "They  say  Mother 
Spuraway's  imp  is  a  green  frog  that  lives  in  a  stream 
by  her  door  — " 

A  boy  beside  the  tinker,  nudged  by  the  latter, 
opened  his  mouth.  "Tom  and  Dick  and  Jarvis  and  I 
were  playing  in  Hawthorn  Forest  by  the  burned  cot. 
And  a  grey  and  white  cat  came  out  of  the  stones  and 
climbed  up  in  the  plum  tree  and  sat  and  looked  at 
us,  and  we  tried  to  drive  it  away,  but  we  could  n't. 
Then  Master  Aderhold  came  out  of  the  woods  and 
grew  as  tall  as  the  plum  tree  and  put  up  his  arm,  and 
the  cat  came  and  lay  upon  it.  And  there  was  Joan 
Heron  standing  in  her  grey  dress,  and  she  was  as  tall 
as  he  was,  and  he  gave  her  the  cat  and  she  laid  it 
along  her  shoulder,  and  they  went  away  through  the 
woods  without  their  feet  touching  the  ground  —  " 

231 


THE  WITCH 

The  forester's  wife  was  an  impatient  dame.  By 
this  she  had  worked  her  way  into  the  row  nearest  the 
justice  and  the  minister,  and  now  she  raised  her 
voice.  "  Your  Honour  and  Maister  Clement,  I  keep 
bees,  and,  Your  Honour,  they've  not  done  well  for 
a  lang,  lang  time !  They  Ve  not  done  well  since,  out 
of  kindness,  I  took  three  hives  frae  folk  that  were 
gaeing  visiting  and  put  them  with  my  ain.  Those 
bees  I  took,  I  swear  were  not  just  bees!  Times  I 
thought  as  much  while  they  harboured  with  my 
bees,  and  would  do  naught  nor  let  my  ain  do  aught 
—  but  I  kenned  it  well  when  they  were  gone  back 
to  where  they  came  frae!  Your  Honour  and  Mais- 
ter Clement,  I  ha'  gone  by  where  those  hives  stand 
now  and  seen  those  bees  come  flying  in  with  wings  a 
span  long  and  shining,  and  bodies  daubed  with  gold 
and  making  a  humming  sound  like  a  fiddle-string! 
And  those  visiting  folk  were  not  auld  Mither  Spura- 
way,  though  I  doubt  not  she  be  a  witch,  too !  —  Those 
beehives  are  standing  under  the  thatch  of  Heron's 
cottage!" 

At  sunset  that  evening  Joan  sat  on  her  doorstep, 
her  elbows  upon  her  knees  and  her  brow  in  her 
hands.  The  apple  trees  were  in  bloom,  the  hearts- 
ease was  in  bloom  beside  the  well,  red  and  gold  cow- 
slips brushed  her  shoe.  The  day  had  been  warm,  but 
the  evening  fell  cool  and  rich.  All  day  she  had  not 
gone  from  the  cottage.  She  had  seen  none  pass 
either;  the  road,  the  fields,  the  wood  were  as  quiet 

232 


MOTHER  SPURAWAY 

as  though  human  life  had  fled  from  the  earth.  She 
sat  with  a  heart  oppressed,  the  world  grown  vague 
and  monstrous.  .  .  .  The  cottage,  the  garden,  the 
fruit  trees  were  wrapped  in  the  afterglow.  The  birds 
were  still ;  the  last  bee  had  come  in  from  the  flowers ; 
somewhere  in  a  marshy  meadow,  the  frogs  were  be- 
ginning. 

The  grey  and  white  cat  came  and  rubbed  itself 
against  her.  She  lifted  her  head,  and  saw  three  or 
four  men  on  the  winding  path  between  the  forest 
road  and  Heron's  cottage.  As  they  came  nearer  she 
recognized  first  the  tinker,  but  in  a  moment  saw 
that  the  one  at  the  head  was  the  Hawthorn  consta- 
ble. Her  heart  stopped,  then  began  to  beat  very 
heavily.  As  they  came  through  the  gate  and  up 
the  little  path  she  rose  from  the  door-step. 

"Good-day,"  said  one  of  them. 

1 '  Good-day,  neighbours. ' ' 

The  constable  cleared  his  throat.  He  was  a  stolid, 
elderly  man  with  many  daughters  and  sons,  and  he 
opposed  to  the  world  a  wooden,  depthless  face. 
"Probably  you  know,"  he  said,  "what  we've  come 
for?" 

"No,"  said  Joan:  "what  have  you  come  for?" 

The  constable  put  out  the  staff  that  he  carried  and 
touched  her  on  the  shoulder.  "  In  the  King's  name! 
You  're  to  come  with  me  for  being  a  witch  and  work- 
ing great  harm  to  the  King's  good  subjects  —  for 
laming  and  casting  spells  —  for  worshipping  Satan 
at  his  sabbats  at  the  burned  cot  and  the  fairy  oak  — 

233 


THE  WITCH 

for  plotting  mischief  with  an  infidel,  blasphemer,  and 
sorcerer  — " 

Joan  stood  motionless,  her  grey  eyes  clear,  the 
blood  not  driven  from  her  heart.  She  had  seen  the 
harm  brewing,  she  had  had  her  torture  in  watching 
the  deep  storm  gather;  now  that  it  was  rolling  over 
her  she  grew  suddenly  steady.  Though  she  knew  it 
not  she  had  always  had  strength  and  courage,  but 
now  she  touched  and  drew  from  some  great  reservoir 
indeed.  A  wholesome  anger  helped  her  to  it,  an  inner 
total  rebellion  and  scorn,  an  amazed  recognition  of 
universal,  incredible  mistake  and  folly!  Truly  if  men 
based  life  so  crumblingly,  on  such  a  lie  as  this !  .  .  . 
Sabbats  at  the  burned  cot  and  the  fairy  oak.  .  .  . 
Plotting  with  —  Something  swept  over  her  face,  her 
frame  seemed  to  grow  taller  in  the  flower-starred 
dusk  by  Heron's  cottage. 

The  tinker  was  next  to  the  constable.  Now  he 
spoke  with  an  elfish  grin  and  his  foot  trampling 
down  the  cowslip  by  the  door.  "  Mistress  Young 
Witch  never  thought,  did  she,  that  when  Tom  Tin- 
ker came  up  behind  her,  standing  before  the  prison 
yonder,  he  saw  well  enough  that  she  was  making 
witch  signs  to  one  within?  —  Now  the  witch  to  the 
warlock — lemans  must  lodge  under  the  same  roof!" 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   GAOL 

ADERHOLD  looked  forth  from  a  narrow  grating,  so 
high-placed  that  he  must  stand  a-tiptoe  like  a  child 
to  see  at  all.  Summer  without,  —  summer,  summer, 
and  the  winds  of  heaven !  Within  the  gaol  was  sum- 
mer close  and  stagnant.  It  was  difficult  for  light  and 
air  to  make  their  way  into  the  space  where  he  was 
kept.  What  could  come  came,  but  much  was  pre- 
vented by  the  walls  and  the  intention  with  which 
they  had  been  built.  In  that  day,  in  a  prison  such  as 
this,  a  noisy  medley  of  people  without  freedom 
might  be  found  in  the  dark  and  damp  central  pas- 
sage and  larger  rooms  or  in  the  high-walled  and  dis- 
mal bit  of  court.  All  manner  of  crime  and  no-crime, 
soil,  mistake,  and  innocence  huddled  there  together, 
poisoning  and  being  poisoned.  Time  and  space 
received  of  their  poison,  carried  it  without  these 
walls  with  at  least  as  much  ease  as  air  and  light  came 
in,  and  distributed  it  with  a  blind  face  and  an  im- 
partial hand. 

But  certain  prisoners,  those  that  people  without 
the  prison  thought  too  poisonous  or  were  willing 
vengefully  to  make  suffer,  were  not  allowed  the  hall- 
way or  the  court  or  speech  with  fellow  misery.  These 
were  put  into  small,  twilight  chambers  or  dungeons. 

235 


THE  WITCH 

Aderhold  paced  twelve  feet  by  six  —  twelve  feet 
by  six.  He  was  shackled,  a  chain  from  ankle  to 
ankle,  another  from  wrist  to  wrist.  But  they  were 
not  heavy,  and  there  was  slack  enough,  so  that  one 
might  walk  and  to  some  extent  use  the  hands. 
Twelve  feet  by  six  —  twelve  feet  by  six.  What 
light  fell  through  the  loophole  window  fell  in  one 
thin  shaft  of  gold-dust.  The  walls  were  damp  to  the 
touch,  and  scratched  over  with  names,  ribaldry,  and 
prayers.  He  himself,  with  a  bit  of  pointed  stone 
that  he  had  found,  was  graving  in  Latin  upon  an 
unmarked  breadth.  Twelve  by  six  —  twelve  by  six 
—  where  the  straw  pallet  was  flung,  not  more  than 
three  feet  clear. 

He  knew  well  how  to  avail  himself  of  the  escape 
of  the  mind  and  thereby  to  defeat  the  hours.  He 
had  no  books,  but  memory  and  imagination  were 
to  him  landscape  and  library,  while  the  searching 
thought  worked  here  as  elsewhere.  Memory  and 
imagination  could  become  his  foes;  Aderhold  had 
known  that  from  of  old.  Oftenest  friends  and  great 
genii,  but  sometimes  foes  with  mowing  faces  and 
stabbing,  icy  fingers.  But  strangely  to  him,  in 
these  days,  no  hostile  side  appeared ;  or  if  it  came, 
it  came  in  lessened  strength ;  or  if  its  strength  was 
the  same,  then  the  opposing  forces  within  him  had 
themselves  gathered  power  to  overcome.  It  seemed 
to  him  that  of  late  he  had  come  to  a  turning;  fear, 
shrinking,  and  dismay,  that  had  often  met  him  full 
course  in  life,  often  lurked  for  him  at  corners  he 

236 


THE  GAOL 

must  pass,  seemed  now  themselves  somewhat 
shrunken  and  sinewless.  He  had  known  that  there 
was  further  growth  within  him  —  oh,  further, 
further !  —  and  that  some  day  he  would  turn  and 
look  them  in  the  face  and  see  them  for  the  pygmies 
that  they  were.  It  seemed  that  the  dawn  of  that 
day  had  been  nearer  than  he  knew.  .  .  .  Twelve 
feet  by  six  —  twelve  feet  by  six  —  with  as  even  and 
steady  a  pace  as  the  irons  would  allow,  and  all  the 
time  to  fancy  that  he  walked  free  in  Hawthorn 
Wood.  Then,  for  a  change,  to  draw  himself  up  and 
see  what  might  be  seen  through  the  slit  of  window. 
What  might  be  seen  was  the  topmost  branch  of  a 
tree  and  a  gargoyled  angle  of  the  great  church 
tower,  and  above  all  a  scimitar  breadth  of  blue  sky. 
From  that  to  turn  and  grave  at  a  letter  upon  the 
wall;  then  to  walk  again;  then  to  rest  upon  the 
straw  while  the  subtile  body  went  free,  passed  like 
an  emanation  through  the  prison  walls  and  wan- 
dered in  foreign  lands,  and  where  there  was  neither 
land  nor  water  underfoot.  At  times  he  took  under 
consideration  his  own  present  predicament  and 
earthly  future.  But  the  sting  and  terror  were  gone. 
That  they  were  so  he  thanked  his  higher  self,  his 
widening,  deepening,  marching  consciousness. 

His  present  case.  .  .  .  There  had  been  the  exami- 
nation immediately  after  his  arrest  and  commit- 
ment to  this  gaol,  the  examination  when  he  had 
admitted  the  apostasy  and  denied  the  sorcery.  But 
that  had  been  weeks  ago,  and  since  then  naught. 

237 


THE  WITCH 

Day  after  day  in  this  dusk  place,  and  only  the 
turnkey  had  entered. 

This  gaoler  was  a  battered,  sometime  soldier,  red- 
faced  and  wry- mouthed.  What  romance  had  been 
in  his  life  appeared  to  have  come  to  him  with  the 
dykes  and  green  levels  and  waters  of  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. Chance  leading  him  one  day  to  the  discovery 
that  his  prisoner  knew  Zutphen,  Utrecht,  and  Am- 
sterdam, he  had  henceforth,  at  each  visit,  plunged 
back  for  one  short  moment  into  the  good  old  wars 
and  renewed  a  lurid  happiness.  The  reflex,  striking 
upon  Aderhold,  lightened  his  lot  as  prisoner.  The 
gaoler,  after  the  first  few  days,  exhibited  toward  him 
no  personal  brutality.  Once  he  made,  unexpectedly, 
the  remark  that  he  had  seen  good  fighting  done  by 
all  manner  of  people,  and  that  the  Devil  must  have 
some  virtue  in  order  to  make  so  good  a  stand.  But 
the  gaoler's  visits  were  of  the  briefest,  and  he  was 
close-mouthed  as  to  all  things  save  the  wars.  If  he 
knew  when  assizes  would  be,  he  chose  not  to  impart 
it.  One  day  only  he  had  been  communicative  enough 
to  speak  of  the  commission  named  by  the  Privy 
Council.  Who  were  the  commissioners?  He  named 
the  members  from  this  side  of  the  county  —  two  or 
three  of  the  clergy,  several  considerable  country 
gentlemen.  From  the  Hawthorn  end  Squire  Car- 
thew  and  his  brother  and  Master  Clement  the  min- 
ister. It  had  been  at  work,  the  commission,  meeting 
and  meeting  and  taking  people  up.  The  matter  was 
become  a  big  matter,  making  a  noise  through  the 

238 


THE  GAOL 

country.  They  said  the  King  himself  was  inter- 
ested. A  bishop  was  coming — and  the  Witch  Judge. 

"The  Witch  Judge?" 

"Aye,  the  Witch  Judge." 

But  the  gaoler  would  say  no  more  —  Aderhold 
was  not  sure  that  he  knew  much  more.  He  left  the 
cell,  and  at  no  other  visit  would  he  speak  of  any- 
thing but  the  Dutch  and  the  good  wars.  .  .  .  What 
he  had  said  had  left  a  sharp  thorn  of  anxiety,  — 
not  for  the  prisoner's  self.  Aderhold  knew  perfectly 
well  how  palely  hope  gleamed  upon  Gilbert  Ader- 
hold. He  would  be  done  to  death.  But  he  knew  also, 
from  much  observation,  how  they  dragged  the  net 
so  as  to  take  in  unallied  forms.  He  tried  to  think  of 
any  at  Hawthorn  or  thereabouts  who  might  be  en- 
dangered. He  had  been  intimate  with  no  one;  none 
there  had  been  confidant  or  disciple.  How  many 
that  could  save  he  had  had  occasion  to  note  in 
France  and  Italy.  Speech  with  such  an  one,  acts  of 
mere  neighbourliness,  the  sheerest  accidental  cross- 
ing of  paths  —  anything  served  for  prosecution 
and  ruin  ...  In  the  lack  of  all  knowledge  he  was 
chiefly  anxious  about  old  Dorothy  and  the  boy  her 
nephew,  and  the  youth  to  whom  he  had  given 
books.  He  never  thought  of  Joan  as  being  in  peril. 

Counting  the  days,  he  gathered  that  assizes  could 
now  be  no  great  way  off.  Then  would  he  hear  and 
know,  be  judged  and  suffer.  After  that  —  continu- 
ance, persistence,  being,  yet  and  for  ever,  though  he 
knew  not  the  mode  nor  the  manner  of  experience. 

239 


THE  WITCH 

.  .  .  The  gold  light  lay  across  the  cell  like  a  fairy  road. 
He  turned  upon  his  side,  eased  wrist  and  ankle  as 
best  he  might,  and  with  the  chain  across  his  breast 
fell  half  asleep.  Ocean  waves  seemed  to  bear  him  up, 
a  strong  warm  wind  to  blow  upon  him,  birds  to 
be  flying  toward  him  from  some  beautiful,  friendly 
strand.  .  .  . 

The  grating  of  the  key  roused  him.  It  was  not 
the  gaoler's  time  of  day,  but  he  was  here,  red-faced 
and  wry-mouthed. 

Aderhold  rose  to  his  feet.  "Are  the  Judges 
come?" 

The  gaoler  shook  his  head.  "No,  no!  They're 
trying  highway  thieves  next  county.  You're  to  be 
lodged  t'  other  side  of  gaol." 

They  went  down  a  winding  stair  and  through  a 
dark  and  foul  passageway,  then  from  one  general 
room  to  another.  The  place  was  here  dusk  and 
gloom,  here  patched  with  sunny  light.  It  was  well 
peopled  with  shapes  despairing  and  complaining, 
or  still  and  listless,  or  careless  and  noisy.  The 
gaoler  and  Aderhold  crossed  a  bit  of  court  and  came 
by  a  small  door  into  a  long  and  narrow  room  where 
again  there  were  prisoners,  men  and  women. 

"Stand  here,"  said  the  gaoler,  "while  I  get  an 
order."  He  moved  away  to  a  door  in  the  wall. 

The  place  was  warm  and  dusk,  save  where  from 
high  windows  there  fell  a  broken  and  wavering  light. 
There  was  a  dull  murmur  as  of  droning  bees.  Sound, 
too,  from  the  town  square  without  floated  in,  — 

240 


THE  GAOL 

summer  sounds.  A  fugitive  memory  came  to  Ader- 
hold.  It  was  years  ago,  and  a  spring  morning,  and 
he  was  riding  across  the  square  with  Will  the  serv- 
ing-man, Master  Hard  wick  behind  in  the  litter, 
ahead  on  his  great  roan  Harry  Carthew.  Upon  the 
heels  of  that  retracing  came,  another.  It  was  last 
winter  again,  and  he  stood  on  a  doorstep  not  far 
from  here,  and  ten  feet  away  Sir  Richard  from  the 
castle  sat  his  horse  and  smelled  at  his  silver  box  of 
spices.  .  .  .  He  came  back  to  the  present  hour.  This 
place  was  long,  like  a  corridor ;  it  was  curiously  gold- 
brown  and  red-brown,  like  a  rich  painting  for  light 
and  shadow.  He  looked  across  and,  standing  alone 
against  the  wall,  he  saw  Joan  Heron.  .  .  .  All  noise 
stilled  itself,  all  other  shapes  passed.  It  was  as 
though  there  were  spread  around  them  the  lone- 
liest desert  or  sea-strand  in  all  the  world. 

Joan  stood  straight  against  the  wall.  Her  grey 
dress  was  torn,  her  grey  eyes  had  shadows  beneath 
them,  she  had  no  colour  in  cheek  or  lip,  and  she 
stood  indomitable. 

Aderhold  put  his  hand  before  his  eyes.  "  Mistress 
Friendly  Soul,"  he  said,  "why  are  you  here?" 

"For  somewhat  the  same  reason,"  she  answered, 
"that  you  are  here.  Because  it  is  a  crazed  world." 

"How  long—?" 

"A  long  time.  .  .  .  Nearly  four  weeks." 

"Is  it  my  misery  to  have  brought  you  here?" 

"No,"  said  Joan,  "cruelty  and  wrong  brought  me 
here." 

241 


THE  WITCH 

"You  are  charged  with  — " 

"Yes.   With  witchcraft." 

The  gaoler,  returning,  began  furiously  to  grumble 
that  he  would  have  no  speaking  together,  and  urged 
Aderhold  away.  There  was  naught  to  do  but  to 
obey;  he  went,  but  at  the  door  looked  back.  She 
was  standing  with  her  grey  eyes  and  her  sorrowful 
face  set  in  scorn  of  this  place  and  of  the  world.  The 
door  closed  between  them. 

"No!"  said  the  gaoler.  "No  questions,  for  I'll 
not  answer  them.  Say  naught  and  pay  naught !  — • 
Down  this  stair.  You  won't  be  so  well  lodged." 

It  mattered  not  greatly  to  Gilbert  Aderhold  how 
he  was  lodged.  When  the  gaoler  was  gone  and  the 
grating  key  removed,  and  solitude  with  him  in  this 
dim  place,  he  lay  down  upon  the  stone  that  made  its 
flooring  and  hid  his  face.  After  a  time,  rising,  he 
walked  the  dungeon  where  he  was  immured.  He 
struck  his  shackled  hands  against  the  wall,  pressed 
his  forehead  against  the  stone.  .  .  . 

The  hours  passed,  the  day  passed,  another  night 
passed ;  another  dawn  came,  strengthening  outside 
into  burning  day.  The  gaoler  appeared  for  a  moment 
morning  and  evening,  then  darkness  and  silence. 
.  .  .  He  thought  that  he  must  be  yet  nearer  the  great 
church  than  he  had  been  in  his  first  cell.  He  could 
hear  the  bells,  and  they  clanged  more  loudly  here. 

Aderhold,  pacing  the  space  not  much  longer  or 
wider  than  a  grave,  heard  in  their  ringing  church 
bells  far  and  near  and  deep  in  time.  He  heard  them 

242 


THE  GAOL 

ringing  over  Europe  and  from  century  to  century. 
He  heard  the  bells  of  a  countryside  that  had  rung 
when  he  was  a  child  and  had  loved  them  well.  He 
thought  of  the  hosts  who  had  loved  the  church  bells, 
who  loved  them  yet;  of  the  sweetness  and  peace 
and  musical  memory  they  were  to  many  —  to  very 
many;  of  the  thousand  associations,  hovering  like 
overtones,  thoughts  of  old  faces,  old  scenes,  old 
gladnesses.  He  saw  old,  peaceful  faces  of  men  and 
women  who  had  made  their  religion  a  religion  of 
love  and  had  loved  the  church  bells.  Waves  of  fra- 
grant memories  came  to  Aderhold  himself  —  days 
of  a  serious,  quiet  childhood  when  he  had  pondered 
over  Bible  stories ;  when  in  some  leafy  garden  cor- 
ner, or  on  his  bed  at  night,  he  had  gone  in  imag- 
ination step  by  step  through  that  drama  of  Judea, 
figuring  himself  as  a  boy  who  followed,  as,  maybe,  a 
younger  brother  of  the  beloved  John.  It  came  back 
to  him — as,  indeed,  it  had  never  left  him  —  the 
soft  and  bright  and  good,  the  pristine  part,  the 
Jesus  part,  the  natural  part.  Do  unto  others  as  thou 
wouldst  have  others  do  unto  you  —  Love  thy  neighbour 
as  thyself  —  /  say  unto  you  until  seventy  times  seven 
times  — 

The  church  bells!  The  church  bells!  But  they 
had  swung  him  here  into  this  narrow  place  and  dark, 
and  they  would  swing  him  into  a  darker  and  a  nar- 
rower. They  had  swung  Joan  Heron  there  where 
she  stood  against  the  wall.  .  .  .  The  many  and  the 
many  and  the  many  they  had  rung  and  swung  to 

243 


THE  WITCH 

torture,  infamy,  and  death!  The  church  bells!  They 
rang  in  the  name  of  a  gentle  heart,  but  they  rang 
also  for  the  savage  and  poor  guesses,  the  ferocities, 
the  nomad  imagination  of  an  ancient,  early  people. 
They  rang  for  Oriental  ideas  of  despot  and  slave, 
thrones  and  princes,  glittering  reward  of  eternal, 
happy  indolence,  fearful  punishment  of  eternal  phys- 
ical torment  and  ignominy !  They  rang  head  beneath 
the  foot,  and  he  that  raiseth  voice  against  this  Order, 
not  his  body  only,  but  his  soul  and  his  memory 
shall  be  flayed!  .  .  .  Palestine  or  England,  what  did 
it  matter?  Caiaphas  or  the  Christian  Church?  .  .  . 
The  searching,  questing  spirit  that,  age  by  age,  lifted 
from  the  lower  past  toward  the  light  of  further 
knowledge,  larger  scope  —  and  the  past  that,  age 
by  age,  hurled  its  bolts  and  let  its  arrows  fly  and 
rang  its  iron  bells  against  that  spirit.  .  .  .  The  bells 
rang  and  rang.  He  heard  them  sweet  and  softened 
across  the  years  and  knew  that  many  loved  them 
and  held  them  holy;  he  heard  them  ring,  jubilantly, 
above  many  a  martyr's  stake,  massacre,  war,  and 
torture  chamber,  ring  the  knell  of  just  questioning, 
ring  the  burial,  for  yet  longer  and  yet  longer,  of  the 
truth  of  things ;  and  knew  that  many,  and  those  not 
the  least  worthy,  must  abhor  them.  He  had  loved 
them,  too,  but  to-day  he  loved  them  not.  They 
clanged  with  a  hoarse  old  sound  of  savage  gong  and 
drum  and  tube  calling  to  the  sacrifice.  .  .  . 

Between  morning  and  midday  the  door  opened 
and  his  red-faced,  wry-mouthed  friend  of  the  Dutch 

244 


THE  GAOL 

wars  appeared.  "Two  of  the  commissioners  would 
talk  with  you."  They  climbed  the  stairs  leading 
from  the  darkness,  and  passed  again  through  that 
long  and  narrow  room.  But  though  there  were  pris- 
oners here,  Joan  Heron  was  not  among  them.  The 
gaoler  turned  to  the  left  and,  opening  a  door,  signed 
to  him  to  enter  a  fair-sized,  well-lighted  room  where 
were  chairs  and  a  table.  The  light  dazzled  him, 
coming  from  the  almost  night  underfoot.  When  his 
vision  cleared  he  saw  that  the  two  who  awaited  him 
were  the  minister  of  Hawthorn  and  Master  Harry 
Carthew. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ADERHOLD   AND   CARTHEW 

MASTER  CLEMENT  sat,  tense  and  straight,  spirit- 
ually girded  to  meet  Satan  and  his  legionaries. 
Harry  Carthew  was  standing  when  Aderhold  en- 
tered the  room,  but  immediately  he  came  and  sat 
beside  the  minister,  his  eyes,  deep-set  in  a  pale,  fever- 
wasted  countenance,  regarding,  not  unsteadily,  the 
prisoner.  He  had  risen  from  his  bed  but  a  week  ago ; 
this  was  the  first  time  he  had  ridden  to  the  town. 
There  was  something  strange  in  his  countenance, 
a  look  now  vacillating,  now  fixed  and  hardened.  He 
held  his  gloves  in  one  hand  and  drew  them  through 
the  other  with  a  repeated  motion. 

"Give  you  good-day,  Master  Aderhold,"  he  said 
in  a  controlled,  toneless  voice. 

"Give  you  good-day,  Master  Carthew." 
The  minister's  strong  sing-song  pierced  the  air. 
"Thou  guilty  and  wretched  man!  We  have  left 
thee  so  long  to  hug  thy  own  mind  because  there 
was  much  work  elsewhere  to  do !  To-day  we  would 
have  thee  bethink  thyself.  Thy  sorcery  at  the  Oak 
Grange  and  in  Hawthorn  Forest  and  elsewhere  is 
wholly  discovered!  Thy  fellows  in  iniquity  are  all 
taken,  and  sufficient  have  confessed  to  set  thee  at 
the  stake!  Why  continue  to  deny — adding  so  to  the 

246 


ADERHOLD  AND  CARTHEW 

heat  of  that  hell  which  awaits  thee  —  thy  doings 
in  this  nature?  What  use  to  say  that  thou  didst  not, 
leaving  thy  double  in  the  constable's  hands,  return 
in  the  storm  upon  the  Hawthorn  road,  and  by  the 
power  of  Satan  affront  and  stay  and  with  thy  devil- 
furnished  dagger  wound  Master  Harry  Carthew?" 

"What  use,  indeed!"  said  Aderhold.  "And  yet 
I  say  it." 

"Then,"  said  Master  Clement,  and  the  veins 
upon  his  forehead  began  to  swell,  "thou  art  a  foolish 
poor  atheist!  What!  when  thou  art  compact  of 
denial,  and  will  be  lost  from  earth  and  heaven  be- 
cause of  that,  dost  think  that  one  denial  more  will 
serve  thee?  Come!  Thou  struckest  the  blow,  we 
know.  What  witch  had  come  at  thy  call  and  was 
with  thee,  standing  on  the  hill  brow,  weaving  and 
beckoning  the  storm?" 

' '  What  witch ? ' '  echoed  Aderhold,  startled .  ' '  Nor 
I  was  there  nor  any  other!" 

Harry  Carthew  had  not  ceased  to  draw  the  gloves 
held  in  one  hand  through  the  other.  He  sat  with 
downcast  eyes,  wasted  and  sombre,  more  wasted, 
more  haggard,  and  overlaid  with  the  dull  tint  of 
tragedy  than  Aderhold  himself.  He  spoke  now  with 
a  flushed  cheek.  "Let  that  go  by!  It  matters  not 
what  hand  struck  me  in  the  side  that  night  — "  He 
turned  on  Aderhold.  "That  which  I  must  know,  and 
will  know,  I  tell  you — "  Shaken  by  passion  he 
pushed  back  his  chair,  and  rising  moved  with  a  dis- 
ordered step  the  length  of  the  room. 

247 


THE  WITCH 

Master  Clement  could  not  let  pass  the  first  part  of 
his  speech.  "Not  so,  Harry  Car thew!  What!  Mat- 
ters not  that  you  should  be  brought  to  death's  door 
by  the  stroke  of  a  wizard  misbeliever  —  " 

Carthew  again  approached  the  table.  "  It  matters 
not,  I  say.  Unless  — "  He  stood  looking  fixedly  at 
Aderhold,  the  breath  coming  quickly  from  between 
his  lips.  "  It  has  been  confessed  that  you  met  these 
witches  and  wantoned  with  them  at  the  sabbats  in 
Hawthorn  Wood.  .  .  .  Now,  I  have  been  sick  and 
my  senses  wandering,  and  I  have  come  but  lately 
back  into  this  enquiry.  Much  has  happened  — 
much  has  been  done  —  much  has  been  laid  bare  that 
I  knew  naught  of.  In  particular — "  He  broke 
away,  walked  again  the  length  of  the  room;  then 
returning,  stood  above  Master  Clement  in  his  great 
chair  and  urged  some  course  in  an  undertone. 

Master  Clement  first  demurred,  then,  though 
without  alacrity,  acquiesced.  "Is  it  well  for  you  to 
be  alone  with  him?  I  tell  you  the  Devil  hath  such 
wiles  —  But  since  you  wish  it,  I  will  go  —  I  will  go 
for  a  short  while."  He  heaved  his  slight,  black 
figure  from  the  chair,  and,  moving  stiffly,  quitted 
the  room.  The  gaoler  stood  yet  at  the  door,  but,  at 
a  sign  from  Carthew,  without,  not  within,  the  room. 

The  squire's  brother  had  his  own  strength.  It 
exhibited  itself  now.  He  stilled  his  hurried  breath- 
ing, ceased  the  nervous  motion  of  his  hands,  inde- 
finably broadened  and  heightened  his  frame,  and 
became  the  strong,  Puritan  country  gentleman,  the 

248 


ADERHOLD  AND  CARTHEW 

future  officer  of  Ironsides.  Whatever  there  was  in 
him  of  stanch  and  firm  and  good  so  struggled  with 
what  was  darkly  passionate  that,  for  these  minutes 
at  least,  there  rose  on  the  horizon  something  that 
was  not  the  tempest- tossed  ship  of  many  months. 
The  masts  seemed  to  cease  to  bend,  the  anchor  to 
hold  again. 

He  stood  within  five  feet  of  Aderhold.  He  had 
moved  so  that  the  table  was  no  longer  between  them. 
In  doing  so,  the  attitude  of  advantage  and  master- 
ship had  been  lost.  The  two  stood  on  a  level  floor, 
with  no  conventional  judgement  bar  between  them. 
If  in  Carthew,  beneath  murk  and  tempest,  there 
appeared  for  the  moment  something  basic,  justi- 
fied, and  ultimate,  in  Aderhold  no  less  character 
unveiled  its  mass.  He  stood  in  chains,  but  they 
seemed  ribbons  of  mist.  It  was  he  that  was  metal 
and  real,  and  with  a  sudden  loom  and  resistive  force 
sent  back,  broken,  doubts  and  fantastic  violences  of 
thought  and  ascription.  Though  for  a  short  .time 
only,  yet  for  that  time,  the  tattered  farrago  of  super- 
stitions, hanging  in  Carthew's  mind  like  mouldering 
banners  of  wars  whose  very  reason  was  forgot, 
shrunk  and  shrivelled  until  they  seemed  but  feature- 
less dust.  For  a  time  he  ceased,  standing  here,  to  be- 
lieve in  Aderhold 's  attendance  at  sabbats,  brewings 
of  poison  from  baleful  herbs,  toads,  spiders,  and 
newts,  and  midnight  conspirings  in  the  interests  of 
the  Kingdom  of  Satan.  Even  the  acknowledged, 
monstrous  sin,  the  extravagant,  the  unpardonable, 

249 


THE  WITCH 

the  monarch  and  includer  of  all  —  even  the  enor- 
mity of  Unbelief  —  wavered  in  his  mind,  grew  un- 
substantial. There  was  a  fact  of  great  force  before 
him,  a  mass,  a  reality  .  .  .  But  if,  for  one  larger, 
saner  moment,  he  rejected  belief  in  a  supernatural 
bond  of  evil  linking  together  Aderhold  and  Joan 
Heron,  he  by  no  means  did  this  with  the  possibility 
of  other  bonds  —  evil  also  if  they  existed  between 
these  two  —  evil  to  him  as  wormwood,  darkness, 
and  madness! 

11  In  particular,  "he  said,  in  a  voice  that  thickened 
as  he  went  on,  "  I  am  told  that  they  have  taken  Joan 
Heron.  I  had  never  thought  of  that  —  of  her  coming 
under  suspicion  ...  I  had  never  thought  of  that. 
I  do  not  yet  believe  her  to  be  a  witch  —  though  in- 
deed they  bring  all  manner  of  accusation  and  proof 
against  her  —  but  I  will  not  yet  believe  it  ...  But 
I  will  have  from  thee  what  has  been  thy  power  over 
her!  Tell  me  that,  thou  atheist!" 

"My  power  over  her  has  been  naught  and  is 
naught.  I  have  spoken  with  her  seldomer  than  I 
have  spoken  with  you.  I  have  had  no  association 
with  her.  Why  she  should  be  in  this  gaol  I  know 
not." 

"It  is  proved  that  the  morning  after  you  were 
lodged  here  she  came  into  this  square,  and  stood 
before  this  prison,  making  signs." 

"  I  know  naught  of  that.  What  does  she  say  her- 
self?" 

"She  says  that  she  had  walked  to  the  castle  to  see 
250 


ADERHOLD  AND  CARTHEW 

one  there,  and  coming  back,  paused  but  a  moment  in 
the  square.  She  says  she  made  no  signs." 

"And  is  it  so  hard  to  believe  what  she  says?" 

Carthew  drew  a  heavy  and  struggling  breath. 
"There  is  a  passion,  I  think,  that  teacheth  all  hu- 
man beings  to  lie.  ...  It  is -said,  and  loudly,  that 
you  came  to  Heron's  cottage  by  night,  and  that 
she  went  to  the  Oak  Grange  by  night,  and  that  you 
were  paramours." 

"It  is  false.  I  neither  went  so  to  Heron's  cottage 
nor  did  she  come  so  to  the  Grange,  nor  were  we  para- 
mours." 

"That  day  I  found  you  together  in  Hawthorn 
Wood—" 

1  i  Do  you  remember  what  I  said  to  you  ?  That  was 
the  truth." 

"Not  one  hour  afterward  I  was  told  that  often 
—  oh,  often  and  often!  —  you  walked  together  in 
the  forest." 

"Then  you  were  falsely  told.    It  was  not  so." 

"Was  the  truth  —  and  'is'  the  truth.  —  You 
are  earnest  to  clear  her  from  every  shadow  of  asso- 
ciation with  you.  Why?" 

"Why?"  Aderhold's  eyelids  flickered.  "Why? 
It  seems  to  me  easy  to  know  why.  I  was  not  born 
of  so  low  condition  that  I  would  see  the  innocent 
dragged  to  a  place  like  this." 

A  moment's  dead  silence;  then  Carthew  spoke 
with  a  regathered  and  dangerous  passion.  "Others 
are  here  —  dragged  here  for  their  own  sinful  activi- 

251 


THE  WITCH 

ties,  and  accused  likewise  of  being  your  hail  fellows 
and  boon  companions.  There  are  here  a  youth  to 
whom  it  is  said  you  taught  atheism,  and  Mother 
Spuraway  and  Grace  Maybank  and  your  house- 
keeper at  the  Grange  and  others.  Do  you  grieve  for 
them  that  they  are  here?" 

"Aye,"  said  Aderhold;  "I  grieve  for  them. 
Piteous,  wronged  souls!  I  tell  you,  I  have  had 
naught  to  do  with  them,  nor  they  with  me!" 

Carthew's  voice  quivered,  and  he  struck  one  hand 
into  the  other.  "  Words  are  locked  doors,  but  not  the 
voice  with  which  the  words  are  uttered!  'Piteous 
wronged  souls'  that  my  gentleman  born  of  no  low 
condition  feels  grief  for  and  would  deliver  if  he 
might  from  gaol  and  judgement — and  Joan  Heron 
whom  his  voice  only  trembles  not  before,  only 
caresses  not  because  he  would  guard  her  from  the 
ruin  of  his  favour! — What  good  to  loom  there  against 
me  and  thrust  that,  too,  from  you?  You  love  her! 
You  love  her !  And  now  I  will  know  if  she  loves  you ! 
And  when  I  know  that  I  will  know  what  I  shall  do ! " 

"You  are  mad!  Her  life  and  mine  touch  not, 
save  as  this  Hawthorn  music  jangles  our  names  to- 
gether! I  shall  presently  be  dead.  I  know  it,  and 
you  know  it.  Leave  her  living,  her  and  these  others ! 
You  have  the  power.  Leave  them  living!" 

"Power!"  the  other  burst  forth.  "I  have  no 
power  to  save  her.  She  is  bound  with  a  hundred 
cords !  Had  I  not  fallen  ill  I  might  have  —  or  I 
might  have  not  —  But  now  it  is  too  late.  I  can- 

252 


ADERHOLD  AND   GARTHEW 

not ! "  His  helplessness  was  real  enough,  and  it  made 

—  if  he  would  not  feel  it  too  crushingly  —  a  dark 
bubbling-up  of  heat,  violence,  murky  and  passionate 
substance  a  necessity  to  him.   He  gave  it  way. 

Aderhold  saw  the  change,  the  resurgence.  He 
made  with  his  chained  hands  9,  stately  and  mournful 
gesture.  "As  it  will  be!"  he  said. 

The  other  burst  forth.  "Aye,  I  believe  —  I  be- 
lieve that  you  have  poisoned  and  corrupted  her,  and 
that  there  is  truth  in  every  word  they  say !  Now  as  I 
am  a  baptised  man  there  is  truth!  For  you  are  an 
unbeliever  and  God's  enemy!  And  is  not  God's 
enemy  of  necessity  black  and  corrupt  and  a  liar  to 
the  last  particle  of  his  being,  to  the  last  hair  of  his 
head,  to  the  paring  of  his  nails!  More  —  you  have 
stood  there  weaving  a  spell  to  make  me  listen  and 
well-nigh  believe!  Well,  your  spell  will  not  hold  me! 

—  As  God  liveth  I  hold  it  to  be  true  that  you  met  by 
night  in  Hawthorn  Forest  — " 

' '  Look  at  me ! ' '  said  Aderhold.  ' '  That  is  as  true  as 
that  it  was  I  who  struck  a  dagger  into  you  on  a 
Sunday  night!  Now  you  know  how  true  it  is!" 

Carthew  gave  back  a  step  and  went  deadly  white. 
There  was  within  him  that  root  of  grace  that  he  had 
risen  from  his  sick  bed  with  his  first  madness  les- 
sened and  his  mind  set  on  managing  a  correction  in 
the  minds  alike  of  Hawthorn  and  the  commission. 
In  the  first  wild  turmoil  and  anger,  pushing  home 
under  the  half-moon  from  Heron's  cottage,  blood 
staining  his  doublet  and  his  head  beginning  to  swim, 

253 


THE  WITCH 

he  had  seized  —  it  coming  to  him  upon  some  blast  of 
the  wind  that  he  must  find  and  presently  give  a  rea- 
son for  his  condition  —  he  had  seized  the  first  dark 
inspiration.  It  had  answered  —  he  had  found  on 
stepping  from  weeks  of  stupor  and  delirium  that  it 
had  answered  so  well  and  thoroughly  that  now  — 
always  below  the  Unbelief  and  Blasphemy  —  it  was 
one  of  the  main  counts  against  the  physician.  He 
had  thought  to  be  able  to  cast  hesitancy  and  doubt 
on  his  original  assertion.  It  was  dark  —  the  figure 
was  cloaked  —  it  might  not  have  been  the  leech.  .  .  . 
He  found  that  he  could  corrupt  no  one's  belief  that  it 
was  the  leech  —  Hawthorn,  his  brother,  Master 
Clement,  the  commission,  all  were  unshakable.  He 
knew  not  himself  how  to  shatter  their  conviction.  He 
could  not  so  injure  his  own  name  and  fame,  the 
strict  religion,  the  coming  England,  the  great  serv- 
ices which  he  meant  yet  to  perform,  as  to  stand  and 
say,  "  I  lied."  He  could  see  that  even  if  he  said  it,  he 
would  not  be  believed.  They  would  say,  "Your 
fever  still  confuses  your  head."  Or  they  might  say, 
"They  are  casting  their  spells  still."  Or  they  might 
ask,  "Who,  then,  struck  you?"  ...  It  was  impos- 
sible. .  .  .  Even  did  they  believe  it,  what  would  it 
alter?  Nothing!  The  apostate  and  sorcerer  was 
in  any  event  doomed.  A  straw  more  or  less  would 
make  no  difference.  Surely  one  out  of  the  circle  of 
God's  mercy  need  not  be  too  closely  considered.  .  .  . 
But  he  paled  with  the  issue  thrown  so  by  the  man 
himself  between  them. 

254 


ADERHOLD  AND   GARTHEW 

He  paled;  then  desperately  opened  the  gates  to 
anger  the  restorative,  and  jealousy  that  shredded 
shame  to  the  winds.  Moreover,  there  flashed  into 
his  soul  in  storm  a  suspicion.  "Who  struck  me? 
Knowest  thou  that?  If  thou  knowest  that,  then, 
indeed — " 

But  Aderhold  knew  not  that.  He  stood  with 
folded  arms  and  a  steady  face.  It  was  now  to  sum- 
mon the  ancient  virtue,  to  play  truly  the  Repub- 
lican, the  free  man,  now  to  summon  courage  for 
others.  Life!  Life!  And  what  men  and  women  had 
suffered  would  be  suffered  again.  And  still  the  ether 
sprang  clear  and  time  stretched  endlessly,  and  what 
was  lost  here  might  be  found  there.  He  looked  at 
Harry  Carthew  with  a  steadfast  face,  and  reckoned 
that  the  younger  man  was  unhappier  than  he. 

The  door  opened  with  a  heavy  sound  and  Master 
Clement  reappeared.  Carthew  flung  himself  toward 
him,  his  face  distorted.  "Naught  —  naught!  And 
now  I  think  the  worst  —  I  tell  you  I  think  the 
worst—" 

"I  have  always  thought  the  worst,"  said  Master 
Clement.  "Send  him  hence  now,  and  let  us  see  these 
others." 

.  .  .  Aderhold  moved  before  the  red-faced,  wry- 
mouthed  gaoler  through  the  dark  passageway  and 
down  the  stair,  back  to  the  chill  and  darkness  of  his 
dungeon.  Within  it,  the  gaoler  made  a  moment's 
pause  before  he  should  turn  and,  departing,  shut 
the  thick  door  with  the  sound  of  a  falling  slab  of  a 

255 


THE  WITCH 

sepulchre.  He  stood,  to  the  eye  a  rude  and  porten- 
tous figure,  but  to  the  inward  vision  giving  off  at 
times  relieving  glints. 

"Everything  goes,"  he  said  in  a  deep  and  rusty 
voice,  "by  looking  at  more  than  just  itself.  In  an- 
other day  in  England  or  in  another  country  to-day, 
you'd  have  been  racked  or  put  to  the  scarpines  till, 
when  they  wanted  you,  we  'd  have  had  to  carry  you ! ' ' 

"That's  true  enough,"  said  Aderhold.  "One 
should  have  a  grateful  heart !  .  .  .  True  enough  — 
as  I  know  —  as  I  know ! ' ' 

"It's  ten  days  to  assizes,"  said  the  gaoler.  "It 
is  n't  lawful  to  put  folk  to  the  question  in  England 
—  though  if  you  stand  mute,  there 's  peine  forte  et 
dure  —  and  of  course  nobody 's  going  to  do  anything 
that  is  n't  lawful!  But  you  know  yourself  there  are 
ways  — ' ' 

"Yes,"  said  Aderhold.  "Do  you  mean  that  they 
will  be  used?" 

But  the  gaoler  grew  surly  again.  "I  don't  know 
anything  except  that  they  want  your  confession. 
They  Ve  got  a  story  that 's  going  to  be  sold  in  chap- 
books  all  over  England  —  and  ballads  made  —  and 
of  course  they  want  all  the  strange  things  in.  It 's  like 
the  pictures  of  George  and  the  Dragon  —  the  more 
dreadful  the  dragon,  the  taller  man  is  the  George! 
The  town 's  all  abuzz  —  with  the  King  writing  a 
learned  letter,  and  the  bishop  coming  and  the  Witch 
Judge.  —  They  want  a  dreadful  dragon  and  the  tall- 
est kind  of  George!" 

256 


ADERHOLD  AND   CARTHEW 

"I  see,"  said  Aderhold.  "Even  the  dragon,  the 
spear  at  his  throat,  expected  to  flatter !  —  O  Dio- 
genes! let  us  laugh,  if  we  die  for  it!" 

"Anan?"  said  the  gaoler.  "Well,  it  stands  that 
way." 

The  door  shut  behind  hirn,  grating  and  heavy. 
That  it  stood  that  way  Aderhold  found  in  the  days 
that  followed.  .  .  . 

It  drew  toward  assizes.  Five  days  before  the  time 
he  found  himself  one  late  afternoon,  after  a  weary, 
weary  hour  of  facing  the  commission,  again  in  the 
long,  dusky  prison  room  where  he  had  seen  Joan. 
He  knew  now  that  it  was  a  kind  of  antechamber,  a 
place  where  prisoners  were  drawn  together  to  wait 
occasions.  More  than  once  during  these  last  days 
he  had  been  kept  here  for  minutes  at  a  time,  and 
sometimes  others  had  been  here  and  sometimes 
not.  But  Joan  Heron  never.  One  day  he  had  seen 
Dorothy,  and  in  passing  had  managed  a  moment's 
word.  "Dorothy,  Dorothy!  I  am  sorry — "  Doro- 
thy had  gasped  and  shrunk  aside.  "Oh,  wicked 
man!  Oh,  Master  Aderhold — "  He  had  seen  also 
the  youth  with  a  clear  passion  for  knowledge  to 
whom  he  had  lent  books  and  talked  of  Copernicus 
and  Galileo.  This  one  had  not  been  fearful  of  him. 

To-day  he  saw  neither  this  youth  nor  Dorothy. 
But  suddenly,  as  he  stood  waiting  his  gaoler's  lei- 
sure, he  was  aware  of  Joan  Heron.  .  .  .  From  some- 
where came  a  red  sunset  light,  and  it  followed  and 
enwrapped  her  as  she  moved.  She  was  moving  with 

257 


THE  WITCH 

her  arm  in  the  grasp  of  a  man  of  a  curious  and  sinis: 
ter  look  —  moving  by  the  wall  at  the  end  of  the 
room  —  moving  across,  then  back  again,  across 
again  and  back,  across  and  back.  .  .  .  Aderhold  drew 
near,  and  it  was  as  though  an  iron  hand  closed  hard 
upon  and  wrung  his  heart. 

Joan  went  very  slowly,  dragging  her  limbs,  more 
haled  by  the  man  than  moving  of  volition.  Her 
form  swayed,  seemed  as  if  all  and  only  its  desire  was 
to  sink  together,  fall  upon  the  earth  and  lie  there 
with  time  and  motion  ended  in  one  stroke.  Her 
head  was  sunken  forward,  her  eyes  closed. 

The  man  shook  her  savagely.  "No  sleeping!  — 
When  you  are  willing  to  tell  your  witch  deeds,  then 
you  shall  sleep!" 

"Joan!  Joan!"  cried  Aderhold.  He  moved  beside 
the  two.  The  man  looked  at  him  but,  stupid  or  curi- 
ous, neither  thrust  him  off  nor  dragged  his  charge 
away.  It  was  but  for  a  moment. 

Joan  opened  her  eyes.  "You?"  she  said.  "All  I 
want  is  to  sleep,  sleep  — " 

Her  face  was  ghastly,  exhausted.  Aderhold 
uttered  a  groan.  "  Do  they  not  let  you  sleep  either? ' ' 
she  said.  "Five  days,  five  nights  —  and  I  am 
thirsty,  too." 

He  managed  to  touch  her  hand.   "Joan,  Joan  — " 

She  looked  at  him  with  lustreless  eyes.  "The 
others  have  all  made  up  something  to  confess.  But 
though  I  die,  I  will  not.  They  may  twist  a  cord 
around  my  head  and  I  will  not."  A  spasm  crossed 

258 


ADERHOLD  AND  CARTHEW 

her  face.  "Of  their  vileness  they  may  set  the  witch- 
pricker  on  me  and  I  will  not."  Her  voice,  mono- 
tonous and  low,  died  away.  The  man  haled  her  by 
the  arm,  forcing  her  to  walk.  She  reeled  against 
him.  " Sleep  .  .  .  sleep.  Oh,  let  me  sleep!"  A  door 
opened.  The  man  with  her  looked  up,  nodded, 
put  his  hands  on  both  her  shoulders  and  pushed 
her  toward  it.  Her  eyes  closed  again,  her  head  sank 
forward.  Together  the  two  vanished,  leaving  to 
Aderhold  a  sense  of  midnight  and  the  abyss. 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

THE  WITCH  JUDGE  sat  high ;  beside  him  his  circuit 
fellow  who  was  a  nonentity;  a  step  or  two  lower 
a  row  of  local  magistrates.  The  hall  was  large  and 
high,  —  time-darkened,  powdered  with  amber  sun- 
shine entering  through  narrow  windows.  The  com- 
mission that  had  so  zealously  discharged  its  duties 
had  a  place  of  honour.  The  bishop  was  seated  as 
high  as  the  judge,  around  him  those  of  the  clergy 
who  did  not  sit  with  the  commission.  The  earl  was 
away  from  the  castle,  but  at  an  early  moment  in  the 
proceedings  there  came  in  his  kinsman,  Sir  Richard. 
One  of  the  justices  whispered  to  the  nonentity- 
judge,  who  whispered  to  the  Witch  Judge.  The 
Witch  Judge  stopped  short  in  a  foaming  and  thun- 
derous speech  and  waited  until  the  earl's  kinsman 
should  be  seated.  His  air  recognized  the  importance 
of  the  entrance;  he  slightly  inclined  his  enormous, 
grizzled  head,  then  returned  to  his  hurtling  thun- 
ders. 

The  jury  sat  in  its  place.  Farmers  and  tradesmen, 
it  sat  a  stolid  twelve,  and  believed  implicitly  that  one 
who  said  that  there  was  truth  in  the  Bible,  and  also 
that  which  was  not  truth  must  be  hanged  or  burned. 
What  else  was  there  to  do  with  him?  It  had  as  firm 

260 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

an  assurance  that  your  misbeliever  was  always  your 
necromancer.  Indeed,  you  exhibited  and  proved  the 
wickedness  of  his  unbelieving  by  the  nauseous  ill  of 
his  conduct.  That  was  why  examiners  and  commis- 
sions sought  always  until  they  found  the  thread  that 
led  to  Satan's  visible  ownership.  As  for  the  Haw- 
thorn witches  —  the  jury  saw  them  hanging  in  a  row, 
and  purposed  buying  the  ballads  that  would  certain- 
ly be  made. 

The  hall  was  crowded.  It  was  the  most  exciting 
kind  of  trial  that  could  happen  —  barring  only, 
perhaps,  an  occasional  case  of  lese  majeste.  But  this 
was  also  lese  majeste.  They  all  saw  God  as  a  King 
with  a  gold  crown  and  throne  and  court ;  and  Satan 
as  a  derision-covered  rebel,  and  his  imps  and  serv- 
ants very  ugly  —  when  they  were  not  at  times  very 
beautiful  —  and  doom  like  a  Traitor's  Gate,  and 
hell  a  Tower  from  which  there  was  never  any  coming 
forth.  .  .  .  And  it  was  good  to  feel  such  loyal  sub- 
jects, and  to  marvel  and  cry  out,  "Eh,  sirs!  To 
think  of  any  thinking  that!"  .  .  .  The  hall  was 
crowded,  hot,  and  jostling.  Young  and  old  were  here, 
full  means  and  narrow  means,  lettered  and  unlet- 
tered, town  and  country, — for  many  walked  each  day 
from  Hawthorn,  —  birth  and  the  commonalty,  they 
who  held  with  the  Episcopacy,  and  they  who  were 
turning  Puritan,  zealots  and  future  sectaries,  shep- 
herds and  sheep !  And  the  neighbours  of  the  accused 
—  as  many  as  could  get  here  —  and  those  who  had 
sat  with  them  in  Hawthorn  Church  —  and  the  wit- 

261 


THE  WITCH 

nesses  and  sufferers,  fresh  numbers  of  these  being 
continually  discovered.  Now  the  hall  held  its  breath 
while  a  witness  was  being  questioned,  or  the  counsel 
for  the  Crown  spoke,  or  the  Witch  Judge  thundered, 
and  now  it  buzzed  and  hummed  like  the  bees  that 
they  said  were  bewitched.  Heat,  many  bodies  in  con- 
tact and  a  mist  of  breaths,  an  old,  old  contagion  of 
opinion  old  as  savagery  .  .  . 

The  Witch  Judge  was  to  most  a  fearful  delight. 
No  silent,  listening,  seldom-speaking  judge  was  he! 
He  had  a  voice  like  rolling  thunder  and  an  animus 
against  just  those  wrongs  judgement  upon  which 
had  swelled  his  reputation.  He  overbore;  he  thun- 
dered in  where  Jove  would  have  left  matters  to  lesser 
divinities;  he  questioned,  answered,  tried,  and 
judged.  He  loved  to  hear  his  own  voice  and  took 
and  made  occasions.  Nor  would  he  hasten  to  the 
end,  but  preferred  to  draw  matters  out  in  long  re- 
verberations. He  was  prepared  to  give  a  week,  if 
need  be,  to  this  trial  which  was  concluded  ere  he 
took  his  seat.  In  all,  in  the  Hawthorn  matter,  there 
were  eight  folk  to  be  tried.  Destroy  one,  destroy  all, 
principal  and  accessories,  the  whole  hung  together! 
But  he  was  prepared  with  devices  and  flourishes,  and 
for  each  soul  on  trial  specific  attention  and  cat-  and- 
mouse  play,  for  the  Witch  Judge  loved  to  show  his 
variousness.  .  .  .  The  practice  of  the  age  was  every- 
where elastic  enough,  but  in  no  trials  so  licensed  as  in 
such  as  this.  What  need  for  scruples  when  you  dealt 
with  Satan?  .  .  .  No  counsel  was  allowed  the  pris- 

262 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

oners.  If  ever  there  was  floating  in  the  air  a  notion 
that  the  judge  should  be  counsel  for  prisoners, 
guarding  them  from  injustice  and  oppression,  it  had 
made  no  lodgement  in  this  judge's  ear. 

The  writ  de  hceretico  comburendo!  The  Witch  Judge 
thundered  forth  the  text  of  ^it,  then  preached  his 
sermon.  This  wretched  man,  this  wicked  leech,  this 
miscreant,  blasphemer,  and  infidel  had  made  con- 
fession of  his  crime  of  apostasy  —  the  most  enor- 
mous under  heaven  —  confessing  it  without  tears, 
shame,  or  penitence!  Confessing!  nay,  avowing, 
upholding  —  The  Witch  Judge  glowed  fuliginous ; 
his  voice  of  horror  seemed  to  come  from  the  caverns 
of  the  earth.  "  He  denieth  the  actuality  of  the  Holy 
Trinity  —  he  saith  that  the  world  was  not  made  in 
six  days  and  is  not  composed  and  constructed  as  set 
forth  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  —  he  refuseth  to  believe 
in  the  remission  of  sins  by  the  shedding  of  blood  — 
No  language  nor  tongues,"  cried  the  Witch  Judge, 
"can  set  forth  the  enormity  of  his  error,  sin,  and 
crime!  Let  him  burn,  as  God  saith  he  will  burn, 
through  eternity  and  back  again!'*  The  phrase 
caught  the  fancy  of  the  throng.  It  came  back  in  a 
deep  and  satisfied  murmur.  Through  eternity  and 
back  again. 

On  crackled  and  roared  the  Witch  Judge's  thun- 
der. Convict  by  manifold  testimony  and  impeccable 
witnesses,  and  wholly  and  terminably  convict  by  his 
own  confession  without  violence,  it  remained  —  the 
authority  of  Holy  Religion  and  the  Ecclesiastical 

263 


THE  WITCH 

Court  being  present  in  the  person  of  my  Lord  Bishop 
—  it  remained  but  to  give  judgement  and  pass  sen- 
tence upon  the  apostate!  In  regard  to  his  apostasy. 
But  this  wicked  leech  rested  also  under  a  charge  of 
sorcery  —  sorcery  of  the  blackest  —  sorcery  which  he 
obdurately  denied !  Let  him,  then,  before  judgement 
given,  be  tried  for  his  sorcery  —  he  with  these 
wretched  others,  for  Satan  hunteth  not  with  one 
beagle,  but  with  many! 

The  Witch  Judge  half  rose,  puffed  himself  forth, 
became  more  than  ever  a  bolt-darting  Jupiter. 
Trials  for  heresy,  apostasy,  blasphemy  were  not  in 
themselves  wholly  his  element.  But  let  them  darken 
and  lower — as  indeed,  they  almost  always  did  darken 
and  lower  —  into  questions  of  actual  physical  contact 
and  trade  dealings  with  the  Hereditary  Foe,  then  he 
was  in  his  element!  .  .  .  Wizards  and  witches!  The 
Witch  Judge  shook  his  hand  above  the  prisoners. 
' '  And  let  not  any  think  Witchcraft  to  be  other  or  less 
than  Apostasy,  Idolatry,  and  Blasphemy!  If  Apos- 
tasy is  the  Devil's  right  hand,  Witchcraft  makes  his 
left — his  left?  Nay,  his  right  and  most  powerful, 
for  here  is  your  apostate  in  action — here  is  your  un- 
believer upon  his  Lord  Satan's  business!"  Witch- 
craft! Witchcraft!  The'^ Witch  Judge  paced  around, 
threw  lurid  lights  upon  the  crime  he  battened  on. 
His  tribute  of  huge  words  rolled  beneath  the  groined 
roof  and  shook  the  hearts  of  the  fearful.  There  came 
back  from  the  crowd  a  sighing  and  muttering,  half- 
ecstatic,  half- terrified,  low  sound.  The  word  of  God 

264 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

—  the  command  of  the  Most  High,  taken  from  his 
own  lips — the  plainest  order  of  the  King  of  Kings. 

—  Thou  shall  not  suffer  a  witch  to  live.  .  .  .  Statute  of 
the  first  year  of  our  present  Gracious  Sovereign,  our 
lord,  King  James  —  All  persons  invoking  any  evil 
spirit,  or  consulting,  covenanting  with,  entertaining, 
employing,  feeding,  or  rewarding  any  evil  spirit,  or  tak- 
ing up  dead  bodies  from  their  graves  to  be  used  in  any 
witchcraft,  sorcery,  charm,  or  enchantment,  or  killing  or 
otherwise  hurting  any  person  by  such  infernal  arts,  are 
declared  guilty  of  felony  without  benefit  of  clergy  and 
shall  suffer  death.  He  had  a  way  of  uttering  "  death  " 
that  made  the  word  a  distillation  of  all  the  suffering 
man  could  make  for  man. 

Preliminary  thunders  from  the  Witch  Judge 
ceased.  Counsel  for  the  Crown  came  afterwards  like 
a  whistling  wind.  The  long  Hawthorn  Witch  Trial 
began,  and  stretched  from  midsummer  day  to  day. 
To  many  it  afforded  an  exciting,  day- by-day  renewed 
entertainment;  to  some  it  was  a  fearful  dream; 
to  a  very  few,  perhaps,  it  seemed  along,  dull,  painful 
watch  by  .mortality's  fever  bed.  Once  Aderhold 
caught  the  gaze  of  the  earl's  kinsman  upon  him. 
The  eyes  of  the  two  met  and  agreed  as  to  what  was 
passing,  then  Aderhold  looked  away. 

The  prisoners  had  their  appointed  space.  At 
times  they  were  all  brought  together  here ;  at  times 
the  greater  number  were  withdrawn,  leaving  one  or 
two  to  be  examined  separately  or  together.  The  heat 
and  the  light  struck  against  them,  and  the  waves  of 

265 


THE  WITCH 

sound;  from  one  side  came  the  booming  of  the 
judge's  voice  or  the  dry  shrilling  of  the  king's  lawyer; 
from  the  other  the  whisper  of  the  crowd  that  meant 
to  have  witch  blood.  There  were  Aderhold,  the 
youth  to  whom  he  had  given  books,  the  boy  of  six- 
teen, old  Dorothy's  nephew,  Dorothy  herself,  a  half- 
witted woman  from  a  hut  between  the  Grange  and 
the  North- End  Farm,  Grace  Maybank,  Mother 
Spuraway,  and  Joan  Heron  —  eight  in  all. 

Mother  Spuraway  —  Now  torture  was  not  al- 
lowed in  England,  though  on  the  Continent  and  in 
Scotland  it  flared  in  witch  trials  to  its  fullest  height. 
Mother  Spuraway,  therefore,  had  not  been  tortured 
—  no  more  than  Aderhold,  no  more  than  Joan,  no 
more  than  others.  But  it  was  allowable,  where  con- 
fession did  not  come  easily,  to  hasten  it  with  fasting 
from  bread,  water,  and  sleep  —  all  these  being  with- 
holdings,  not  inflictings.  There  might  be,  too,  insist- 
ent, long-continued  questionings  and  threats  and  a 
multitude  of  small  gins  and  snares.  Mother  Spur- 
away  had  been  long  weeks  in  gaol,  and  she  was  old 
and  her  faculties,  once  good,  were  perhaps  not  now 
hard  to  break  down.  At  any  rate,  she  had  a  ghastly 
look  and  a  broken.  Since  she  trembled  so  that  she 
could  not  stand,  they  put  her  into  a  chair. 

"Now  answer  strictly  the  questions  asked  you, 
if  you  have  any  hope  of  mercy!" 

Mother  Spuraway  put  her  two  trembling  hands  to 
her  head.  "  Mercy?  Yes,  sirs,  that  is  what  I  want. 
Mercy." 

266 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

"Very  well,  then!  Look  on  this  man  and  tell  us 
what  you  know  of  him." 

The  clerks'  pens  began  to  scratch. 

Mother  Spuraway's  gaze  was  so  wandering  that 
while  it  came  across  Aderhold,  it  went  on  at  once  to 
a  cobweb  above  the  judge's-  chair.  "He  is  the 
Devil,"  she  said. 

"You  mean  the  Devil's  servant." 

"Yes  —  oh,  yes!  Devil's  servant.  I  mean  just 
what  Your  Honours  want." 

The  Witch  Judge  thundered  at  her.  "Woman!  it 
is  not  what  we  want.  'You  are  to  speak  the  truth. 
Truth-speaking  is  what  we  want." 

Mother  Spuraway's  head  nodded,  her  eyes  fallen 
now  from  the  cobweb  to  the  judge's  robe.  "Yes,  sirs 
—  yes,  sirs.  You  shall  have  what  you  want.  Oh,  yes, 
sirs!" 

"She  asserts,"  said  the  counsel  for  the  Crown, 
"that  she  tells  the  truth.  —  You  were  used  to  going 
to  sabbats  with  this  man?" 

"Yes,  sirs, — sabbats,  sabbats,  sabbats,  sab- 
bats—" 

"Give  her  wine,"  said  the  Witch  Judge.  "She  is 
old.  Let  her  rally  herself.  Give  her  wine." 

A  gaoler  set  a  cup  to  her  lips  and  she  drank. 
"  Now,"  said  the  Crown,  "tell  us  of  these  sabbats  — 
circumstantially. ' ' 

Mother  Spuraway,  revived  by  the  wine,  looked 
from  floor  to  roof  and  roof  to  floor  and  at  the  com- 
mission and  the  Witch  Judge  and  the  bishop,  and  at 

267 


THE  WITCH 

the  motes  in  a  broken  shaft  of  light.  "We  danced 
about  the  burned  cot  —  all  taking  hands  — so ! 
Sometimes  of  dark  nights  we  went  widdershins 
around  Hawthorn  Church  —  sometimes  it  was 
around  the  fairy  oak  at  the  Oak  Grange.  Some- 
times we  danced  and  sometimes  we  flew.  We  rode  in 
the  air.  I  had  an  oaken  horse  —  and  Grace  had  an 
elmen  horse  and  Dorothy  had  a  willow  horse,  and 
Elspeth  No- Wit  had  a  beechen  horse,  and  Marget 
Primrose  had  a  horse  of  yew  — " 

There  was  a  movement  among  the  commission. 
"Marget  Primrose,"  exclaimed  Squire  Carthew, 
"died  years  ago!" 

"She  came  back.  Marget  had  a  yew  horse  —  and 
I  had  an  oaken  horse  —  and  there  were  other  horses, 
but  I  never  learned  their  names.  And  there  were 
green  men  — " 

"Was  this  man  in  green?" 

"  No,  no !  He  had  on  a  doctor's  cloak.  Sometimes 
he  fiddled  for  us  when  Satan  grew  tired." 

"Then  he  was  a  chief  among  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  a  chief  among  us.  —  Sometimes  we 
changed  to  bats  and  mice  and  harmless  green  frogs 
and  hares  and  owls  and  other  creatures  — " 

"You  did  that  when  you  were  about  to  go  to 
folk's  houses  or  fields  to  injure  them?" 

"Yes,  sirs,  yes,  yes  —  about  to  injure  them. 
Then  I  was  a  dog,  and  Grace  a  little  brown  hare,  and 
Dorothy  a  great  frog,  and  Elspeth  No- Wit  a  bat, 
and  Marget  Primrose  —  And  we  brewed  poisons  and 

268 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

charms  in  a  great  cauldron  inside  the  burned  cot, 
but  at  the  fairy  oak  we  made  little  figures  out  of 
river  clay  and  stuck  them  full  of  pins.  And  there  we 
had  a  feast  — " 

"And  this  man?" 

"He  sat  on  the  green  hillock  beside  Satan,  and 
Satan  had  a  black  book.  He  gave  it  to  him  to  read 
in  while  we  were  dancing  and  eating  and  daffing 
with  the  green  men  —  and  then  the  cock  crew  and 
we  all  flew  home." 

"There  were  many  sabbats?" 

"Oh,  yes,  many!" 

"And  this  man  was  always  among  you?" 

"  Yes,  always  among  us." 

"You  say  he  read  in  a  black  book.  But  he  likewise 
danced  and  wantoned  as  did  the  green  men?" 

"Yes,  yes!  The  pretty  green  men." 

"Be  careful  now.  With  whom  especially  did  he 
work  this  iniquity.  Whom  did  he  single  out  at  each 
sabbat?" 

"Whom?  —  I  do  not  know  whom.  .  .  .  Sabbats? 
There  are  no  such  things.  Who  would  leave  home  at 
night  to  wander  round  oak  trees  and  burned  cots?  — 
Oh,  home,  home!  Oh,  my  hut!  I  want  to  see  my 
hut!"  cried  Mother  Spuraway.  "Oh,  good  gentle- 
men! Oh,  Your  Worships!  Oh,  Squire  Carthew  — 
Master  Clement!  —  Won't  you  let  me  go  home?  A 
poor  old  woman  that  never  harmed  a  soul  — " 

The  Witch  Judge's  voice  came  thundering  down. 
"  Her  mind  is  wandering !  —  Thou  wretched  woman ! 

269 


THE  WITCH 

Dost  wish  to  be  taken  back  to  thy  prison,  and 
urged  anew  to  confess?" 

But  apparently  Mother  Spuraway  did  not  wish 
that.  She  put  up  her  two  hands  and  said,  "  No,  no ! " 
• —  then,  shrunken  and  shuddering,  begged  for  more 
wine.  They  gave  it  to  her.  .  .  .  "Now,  whom  did 
this  sorcerer  take  in  his  arms?  Was  it  the  maiden  of 
your  company?" 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes!  The  maiden." 

"The  maiden  of  your  company  was  Joan  Heron? " 

"Yes,  Joan  Heron." 

The  shafts  of  light  were  shortening,  the  earth  wheel- 
ing toward  sunset.  Without  clanged  the  bells  of  the 
great  church  —  it  was  late  afternoon.  The  people 
who  had  far  to  walk,  though  loath  for  the  entertain- 
ment to  cease,  yet  approved  when  the  court  rose  for 
that  day.  Morning  would  not  be  long,  and  they  pur- 
posed returning  most  early  in  order  that  good  pla- 
ces might  be  got.  The  hall  and  the  square  without 
seethed  and  sounded  with  the  dispersing  crowd. 

Near  at  hand  was  the  prison,  its  black  mass  facing 
the  great  square,  the  pillory  in  its  shadow;  beyond, 
slanting  down  to  the  river,  the  field  where  they 
raised  the  gallows.  The  prisoners  when  they  were 
removed  were  taken,  guarded,  along  by  the  wall, 
into  the  dark,  gaping  prison  mouth. 

Joan  walked  beside  Mother  Spuraway.  In  the 
last  three  or  four  days  the  hand  of  withholding  had 
been  lifted  from  the  prisoners  so  that  they  might  get 

270 


THE  WITCH  JUDGE 

their  strength.  .  .  .  Joan  walked  with  a  colourless, 
thin  cheek  and  shadowed  eyes,  but  walked  steadily. 
But  Mother  Spuraway  could  not  drag  her  limbs 
across  the  stones ;  a  gaoler  held  her  roughly  up  with 
a  force  that  drew  a  moan.  Presently,  his  grasp 
relaxing,  she  stumbled  again  and  fell.  Joan  stooped 
and  raised  her,  then  with  her  arm  about  her  bore 
her  on.  "Thank'ee,  my  pretty  maid,"  said  Mother 
Spuraway.  " I'll  do  as  much  for  you  when  you  are 
old!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 

THE  WITCH 

THE  morrow  came  and  went  in  heat  and  tenseness 
and  excitement.  The  third  day  arrived  and  passed 
with  no  lessening.  The  fourth  day  came  and  the 
fever  ran  more  high  than  before.  The  Crown,  the 
jury,  and  the  Witch  Judge,  the  throng  nodding 
approval,  had  now  checked  off  Mother  Spuraway, 
Grace  Maybank,  Dorothy  and  her  nephew,  Elspeth 
No- Wit,  and  the  youth.  It  remained  on  this  day  to 
concentrate  upon  and  finally  dash  to  earth  the  main 
sorcerer  and  that  one  who  patently  had  been  his 
paramour  and  adjutant  —  the  "maiden"  of  the 
wicked  crew.  There  were  many  witnesses  and  much 
wild  testimony.  Small  facts  were  puffed  out  to 
become  monstrous  symbols.  Where  facts  failed,  the 
inflamed  and  morbid  imagination  invented.  It  was 
strange  hearing  to  the  two  who  had  dwelled  at  the 
Oak  Grange  and  Heron's  cottage.  .  .  . 

They  questioned  Elspeth  No-Wit.  "You  had  a 
meeting  the  night  before  the  leech  was  taken?" 

Elspeth  laughed  and  nodded. 

"What  did  you  do  there?" 

"We  had  a  big  kettle  and  a  great  fire.  Everybody 
dropped  what  she  loved  best  in  the  kettle.  We 
played  and  clapped  hands  and  jumped  as  high  as 

272 


THE  WITCH 

the  tree-tops.  When  we  clapped  our  hands,  it 
thundered,  and  when  we  ran  around  the  kettle  the 
wind  blew  our  clothes  away." 

"You  were  brewing  the  storm  that  broke  next 
day?" 

"Oh,  aye!" 

"The  leech  and  Joan  Heron  were  with  you?" 

Elspeth  twisted  her  body  and  peered  around.  "  Is 
that  Joan  Heron  and  is  that  the  leech?  They  ran 
round  thrice  to  our  once,  and  they  kissed  the  closest, 
and  at  last  they  wandered  away." 

Will  the  smith's  son  was  called.  "You  stopped  at 
Heron's  cottage  that  Sunday  evening?" 

Will  stammered,  looking  wild,  hollow-eyed,  and 
awed.  "Aye,  I  did,  please  Your  Honour!  —  But  I 
never  would  have  stopped  but  that  it  was  storming 
so.  —  My  mother  was  with  me,  please  you,  sir." 

"No  one  means  you  any  ill.  —  It  was  dark  under 
the  clouds  without,  but  there  was  a  light  inside  the 
cottage  —  a  red  light?" 

"Yes,  sir;  bright  like  firelight." 

"Hardly,  I  think,  true  firelight:  a  red  and  strange 
light.  —  It  was  well  after  the  hour  when  the  leech 
had  been  taken  from  this  Oak  Grange?" 

"Aye,  Your  Honour.   'T  was  close  to  dark." 

"With  the  constable  and  his  men,  and  Master 
Carthew  riding  a  part  of  the  way,  he  must  then  have 
been  upon  the  Hawthorn  road,  his  face  set  to  this 
gaol?" 

"He  must  have  been  so,  sir,  but  — " 
273 


THE  WITCH 

"We  are  coming  to  that.  It  is  a  fact,  is  it  not,  that 
witches  and  warlocks  are  able  to  transport  them- 
selves, with  their  master  Satan's  aid,  through  the 
air  —  and  that  so  swiftly  that  you  cannot  see  their 
flight?" 

"Oh,  yes,  Your  Honour,"  said  Will.  "They  fly  in 
sieves,  and  sometimes  they  steal  bats'  wings." 

"Very  well.  Now  you  and  your  mother  opened 
this  cottage  gate  and  went  up  the  path  to  the  door, 
and  to  reach  that  you  had  to  pass  the  window.  As 
you  did  that,  passing  close,  you  naturally  put  fore- 
head to  the  frame,  and  looked  within,  and  the  place 
being  filled  with  that  red  light  — " 

"  It  was  n't  very  bright,"  said  Will.  "  It  was  like  a 
faggot  had  parted  on  the  hearth,  and  there  was 
now  a  dancing  light,  and  now  it  was  dark.  There 
was  nothing  clear,  and  we  heard  naught  because  it 
was  lightning  and  thundering  — " 

"And  you  saw — " 

Will  moistened  his  lips.  "Yes,  sir.  — She  and  a 
black  man  were  together  —  yes,  please  Your  Hon- 
our, standing  locked  together — " 

"The  black  man  was  the  leech?" 

"We  did  n't  know  it,  then,  sir  —  How  could  we," 
said  Will,  "when  he  was  three  miles  the  other  side  of 
Hawthorn  with  a  guard?  But  I  know  it  now.  It  was 
the  leech.  — And  mother  and  I  went  on  and  knocked 
at  the  door,  and  she  opened  it  —  and  there  was 
nobody  there  but  Joan  —  Joan  and  the  grey  and 
white  cat.'" 

274 


THE  WITCH 

"You  stayed  no  time  in  that  cottage?* 

"No,  sir,  please  Your  Honour.  There  was  that 
that  frightened  us." 

Will  the  smith's  son  was  motioned  down.  They 
set  Mother  Spuraway  again  in  the  eye  of  the  court — 
Mother  Spuraway,  wrecked  until  she  was  nigh  of  the 
fellowship  of  Elspeth  No- Wit.  "You  have  told  us 
that  on  this  Sunday  evening  you  were  running  in  the 
shape  of  a  hare  through  field  and  copse  by  the  Haw- 
thorn road.  We  have  obtained  from  you  that  you 
saw  the  leech  part  from  his  natural  body,  having 
by  black  magic  so  blinded  the  guard  that  they  went 
on  bearing  with  them  but  a  shadow,  a  double,  and 
yet  unsuspecting  that  cheat.  Now  tell  us  what  the 
sorcerer  did." 

Mother  Spuraway  plucked  at  the  stuff  of  her 
kirtle.  "He  mounted  in  the  air.  —  Storm  —  storm 
—  break  storm!" 

"He  went  toward  Hawthorn  Wood?" 

"Yes,  oh,  yes!  Hawthorn  Wood.  .  .  .  Rue  around 
the  burned  cot." 

"That  is,  toward  Heron's  cottage.  —  A  time 
passed,  and  you,  crouching  then  in  the  hazels  by  the 
road,  saw  him  returning.  —  Now,  mark!  Was  there 
a  horseman  upon  this  same  Hawthorn  road?" 

Mother  Spuraway  tried  to  mark,  but  her  mind 
was  wandering  again.  She  preferred,  it  seemed,  to 
talk  of  when  she  was  a  young  woman  and  Spuraway 
and  she  had  wandered,  hand  in  hand,  in  Hawthorn 
Wood.  But  one  wrenched  her  arm,  and  said  some- 

275 


THE  WITCH 

thing  in  her  ear  and  brought  her  back  with  a  shiver. 
"' Horseman '?  Oh,  aye,  Your  Worships !  A  great, 
noble  horseman." 

"  You  saw  the  leech  coming  across  the  fields  from 
the  direction  of  Heron's  cottage,  and  you  saw  this 
horseman  riding  through  the  storm  toward  Haw- 
thorn Village.  What  then?" 

"I  ran  under  the  earth,"  said  Mother  Spuraway. 
"For  I  was  now  a  pretty  black  mole,  dressed  all  in 
velvet  and  blind  —  blind  —  blind  —  blind  — " 

It  was  with  a  different  —  oh,  a  different,  differ- 
ent tone  that  they  questioned  Master  Harry  Car- 
thew  and  harkened  solicitously  to  what  he  had  to 
tell.  All  the  crowded  place  leaned  forward  and  lis- 
tened, in  the  hot,  slanted  gold  of  the  fourth  after- 
noon. .  .  .  Joan  saw  them  all,  and  saw  into  their 
minds  prone  before  the  foreknown  truth  of  whatever 
Master  Carthew  was  about  to  recount.  She  sat  like 
carven  marble  and  viewed  and  knew  the  world  she 
viewed.  She  saw  Alison  and  Cecily,  Will  and  his 
mother,  Goodman  Cole,  the  forester's  wife,  Lukin 
the  carter,  the  tinker,  many  others.  She  saw  Master 
Clement  and  all  the  clergy  and  gentry  of  the  com- 
mission, the  court,  the  spectators.  She  saw  the 
Witch  Judge  who  was  going  to  hang  her.  And 
townspeople  with  whom  she  had  had  acquaintance. 
.  .  .  The  vintner  who  had  wished  to  marry  her  was 
here,  pale  and  of  a  tremendous  inward  thankfulness. 
And  servants  from  the  castle,  and  the  new  hunts- 
man. .  .  .  All  here  to  see  her  hunted  —  her  and  the 

276 


THE  WITCH 

others.  She  felt  their  tongues  go  over  their  lips,  and 
the  warm  indrawing  of  their  shoulders  and  nursing 
of  their  elbows  —  felt  and  cared  not. 

Carthew  was  speaking  in  a  hollow,  short,  deter- 
mined voice.  If  a  black  lava  torrent  of  passion  and 
madness  was  devastating  his  soul,  few  enough  knew 
it  of  all  in  that  thronged  place.  ...  At  no  previous 
time  had  there  been  such  soundlessness  in  the  hall, 
such  keyed  and  strained  attention.  Hawthorn,  at 
least,  believed  that  Master  Harry  Carthew  was  to 
be  a  great  man  in  England,  was  to  climb  high, with 
the  Bible  in  his  hand.  For  the  town,  that  was  of 
another  cast  of  opinion,  —  if  it  conceived  of  him 
hardly  so  highly,  if  it  shrugged  its  shoulders  and 
waxed  bitter  over  these  mounting  Puritans,  yet  it 
felt  in  its  heart  that  they  were  mounting  and  gave 
to  their  personal  qualities  an  uneasy  recognition. 
It,  too,  marked  Harry  Carthew  for  a  coming  man  — 
though  it  might  not  hold  with  Hawthorn  that  the 
fact  of  Satan's  striking  through  the  sorcerer's  hand 
at  this  life  marked  a  recognition  on  Satan's  part  of 
qualities  the  most  dangerous  to  his  sovereignty. 
And  Carthew  was  young,  and,  though  yet  gaunt  and 
pale  and  hardly  recovered  from  that  felon  blow,  of 
a  manly  form  and  a  well -looking  face.  All  through 
the  long  trial  he  had  sat  there  so  evidently  poisoned 
and  suffering  —  urged  now  by  his  brother  and  now 
by  others  to  leave  and  take  his  rest,  yet  never  go- 
ing —  sitting  there  with  his  eyes  upon  this  murder- 
ing wizard.  .  .  .  The  throng  was  ready  to  make  him 

277 


THE  WITCH 

into  the  hero,  the  visible  St.  George  —  standing 
there  now  with  his  spear  lifted  to  give  the  one  last, 
needed  blow.  .  .  .  There  was  the  dragon,  there!  the 
pale  leech  and  all  the  wretches  with  him,  and  dim 
and  horrible  behind  him  all  his  train  of  evil  works, 
and  Satan  horned  and  hoofed,  spreading  enormous 
bat  wings,  making  the  very  hall  brown  and  dusky! 
Full  beside  the  leech,  in  all  minds  now,  stood  that 
most  vile  witch  Joan  Heron. 

Carthew's  words  were  few  but  explicit.  "The  sky 
was  very  dark  —  there  seemed  more  thunder  and 
lightning  than  there  had  been.  I  was  several  miles 
this  side  of  Hawthorn.  I  was  riding  without  regard- 
ing the  road,  my  mind  being  on  other  things.  My 
horse  stopped  short,  then  reared.  I  felt  the  blow.  It 
was  given  by  a  cloaked  figure  that  immediately 
vanished.  .  .  .  Yes,  it  bore  resemblance  to  the  leech, 
Gilbert  Aderhold." 

The  words  fell,  aimed  and  deliberate,  like  the  exe- 
cutioner's flaming  tow  upon  the  straw  between  the 
piled  logs.  A  stillness  followed  as  though  the  throng 
were  waiting  with  parted  lips  for  the  long  upward 
run  of  the  flame.  Then  out  of  it  came  Joan's  voice, 
quiet,  distinct,  clear,  pitched  loudly  enough  to  reach 
from  wall  to  wall.  "Thou  liar!  Know  all  here  that 
that  man  whom  Will  the  smith's  son  has  called 
the  black  man  and  saw  through  my  window  — 
that  man"  —  she  stood,  her  arm  outstretched  and 
her  finger  pointing  —  "that  man  was  this  man  who 
speaks  to  you !  Know  all  here  that  for  weary  months 

278 


THE  WITCH 

Master  Harry  Carthew  had  pursued  and  entreated 
me  who  speak  to  you  now  —  that  when  he  turned 
that  afternoon  upon  the  Hawthorn  road  it  was 
to  ride  to  Heron's  cottage  and  break  in  upon  me 
there!  Know  that  Will  the  smith's  son,  looking 
through  the  window,  saw  him.  But  he,  hearing 
those  two  knock,  and  fearing  discovery  that  would 
spot  his  fame,  snatched  up  his  cloak  and  made  off 
through  another  door.  But  he  hid  not  far  away,  and 
when  they  were  gone  and  darkness  had  fallen,  back 
he  came,  stealing  in  at  night  upon  a  woman  alone. 
Know  all  of  you  here  that  I  wanted  not  his  love. 
Know  all  that  we  struggled  together,  and  that  I 
struck  him  in  the  side  with  a  hunting-knife.  Know 
all  that  he  rode  from  Heron's  cottage  to  Carthew 
House,  and  to  save  himself  lied  as  you  have  heard!" 

She  stood  an  instant  longer  with  her  arm  out- 
stretched and  her  eyes  upon  Carthew,  then  slowly 
turned,  moved  past  Aderhold,  and,  taking  her  place 
between  Mother  Spuraway  and  Grace  Maybank, 
leaned  her  elbow  on  her  knee  and  her  chin  on 
her  hand. 

The  Witch  Judge's  instantaneous  thunder,  the 
clamour  of  voices,  the  hubbub  in  the  hall  appeared 
to  give  her  no  especial  concern.  When  silence  was 
obtained,  and  Carthew,  white  as  death,  gave  a  cate- 
gorical denial,  she  only  slightly  moved  her  shoul- 
ders, and  continued  her  contemplative  gaze  upon 
this  scene  and  much  besides.  That  if  the  crowd 
could  have  gotten  at  her  she  would  most  likely  have 

279 


THE  WITCH 

paid  with  death  at  once  for  her  brazen  mendacity, 
her  measureless  vile  attempt  to  blacken  one  whom 
the  Enemy  most  evidently  feared  and  hated,  ap- 
peared to  trouble  her  neither.  She  sat  as  still  as 
though  consciousness  were  elsewhere.  .  .  . 

The  next  day  it  ended  —  the  Hawthorn  apostasy- 
sorcery-witchcraft  trial.  Judgement  was  given, 
sentence  passed.  The  court,  the  crowd,  the  bishop, 
Hawthorn,  the  town,  all  seemed  well  of  a  mind. 
Death  for  six  of  the  eight.  For  the  youth  who  read 
too  much  and  for  the  boy,  old  Dorothy's  nephew, 
pillory  and  imprisonment;  but  for  the  six,  death. 
Burning  for  the  apostate  and  sorcerer,  the  leech 
Aderhold,  though,  so  squeamish  grew  the  times,  he 
might  be  strangled  first.  For  the  five  witches  the 
gallows  —  though  it  was  said  that  the  old  woman 
Dorothy  had  sickened  with  gaol-fever  and  would 
not  live  to  be  hanged.  The  sheriff  would  see  to  it 
that  the  execution  took  place  within  the  month.  In 
the  mean  time  close  prison  for  the  evil-doers,  and 
some  thought,  maybe,  on  how  the  Church  and  the 
Law  for  ever  overmatched  the  Devil. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

ESCAPE 

JOAN  sat  on  the  edge  of  her  straw  bed,  with  her  arms 
around  her  knees  and  her  eyes  upon  the  blank  wall. 
For  something  to  do  she  had  been  plaiting  straws, 
making  braids  of  many  strands  and  laying  them 
beside  her  in  squares  and  triangles  and  crosses, 
That  had  palled,  and  now  she  was  determinedly 
using  the  inner  vision.  The  one  thing  she  was  bent 
upon  was  neither  to  think  nor  to  feel  these  past  days, 
weeks,  and  months,  not  to  think  or  to  feel  at  all 
closer  than  a  year  ago.  She  could  bring  back,  she 
could  recompose,  she  could  live  again,  though  with 
much  subtle  difference,  where  she  had  lived  before. 
She  could  image  forth,  too ;  she  could  guide  a  waking 
dream.  Now,  with  all  the  might  that  was  in  her,  she 
made  her  prison  cell  to  grow  what  once  as  a  child  she 
had  seen,  the  sandy  shore  of  the  boundless  sea.  That 
was  freedom,  that  was  light  and  wind  and  space! 
Then  she  had  raced  along  the  beach,  and  in  mind 
she  ran  now,  long-limbed,  with  flying  hair,  only  she 
turned  not,  came  not  back.  .  .  .  The  Joan  Heron 
here  in  gaol  sat  motionless.  .  .  .  One  by  one  she 
added  the  other  prisoners,  until  they  all  ran  away  by 
the  sea  beach,  all  hastening  with  the  cool  wind  at 
their  back  and  the  free  blue  sky  before.  She  drew 

281 


THE  WITCH 

ahead.  They  were  free  and  running  to  some  happy 
land,  but  their  presence  made  it  harder  not  to  think 
or  feel,  and  so  she  ran  ahead.  Sea  and  sky,  and  harm 
forgot.  .  .  .  One  was  running  beside  her,  leaving,  too, 
the  others.  She  would  not  image  this  one  plainly, 
but  they  ran  and  ran,  the  sand  beneath  their  feet. 
...  It  never  occurred  to  her  that  this  was  magic, 
nor,  if  it  had  occurred,  would  she  have  cared.  It  was 
good  magic. 

The  rainbow  vanished,  the  storm  returned.  Here 
was  the  creaking,  creaking  of  the  dungeon  door; 
here  came  again  the  hateful  gaoler,  the  man  who  had 
watched  her  that  she  should  not  sleep !  She  did  not 
turn  her  head  or  speak;  perhaps  to-day  he  would 
put  down  the  jug  of  water  and  the  crust  of  bread  and 
go  without  attempt  at  parley. 

But  he  was  standing  waiting,  his  hand  upon  the 
door  which  he  had  drawn  to  behind  him.  "  Hist ! "  he 
said ;" Joan  Heron!" 

The  voice  was  different.  When  she  had  turned 
swiftly  she  saw  that  it  was  another  man,  a  lean, 
nervous,  quaint-faced  man  in  a  stained  leather  jer- 
kin. Across  the  years  since  the  huntsman's  house 
and  the  castle  wood  and  the  castle  and  its  servants 
there  shot  a  memory.  "Gervaise!"  she  said:  "Ger- 
vaise,  Sir  Richard's  man!" 

"Ah,"  said  Gervaise  with  a  jerk  of  his  head; 
"you've  got  a  good  memory!  I  hope  that  others' 
are  n't  as  good !  I  Ve  been  out  of  these  parts  for  the 
length  of  two  Indies  voyages." 

282 


ESCAPE 

He  opened  the  door,  put  out  his  head  and  glanced 
up  and  down  the  passageway,  then,  with  a  satisfied 
nod,  drew  back,  shut  the  door,  and  came  close  to 
Joan.  "  But  I  'm  Sir  Richard's  man  still,  though  not, 
I  would  have  you  note,  to  the  world  —  no,  not  to  the 
world !  —  The  man  who  up  Jill  now  locked  and 
unlocked  this  door  had  a  dream  of  a  purse  of  gold, 
and  so  yesterday  he  quit  the  gaol's  service  with  a 
speech  to  all  men  that  he  was  sick  halfway  to  death 
with  a  shaking  cold  palsy!  But  by  good  fortune  he 
had  a  cousin  to  slip  in  his  place.  I  am  the  cousin  — 
for  the  nonce,  for  the  nonce!  Hist,  Joan;  I  remember 
thee  well  at  thy  uncle's  there  in  the  wood!  I  '11  tell 
thee  what  I  once  said  to  him.  I  said,  said  I,  'That 
niece  of  thine 's  got  courage  and  wit ! '  —  Joan,  see 
this  bundle!"  He  placed  it  beside  her  upon  the 
straw. 

"Aye,"  said  Joan.   "What's  in  it?" 

"Good,  plain  apprentice  doublet,  hose,  cap,  and 
shoon!  Scissors  likewise  to  cut  long  hair." 

Joan's  hand  closed  upon  it,  but  she  said  nothing. 
She  looked  at  him  with  parted  lips  and  a  light  in  her 
eyes. 

"Just  so ! "  said  Gervaise.  "  It 's  now  close  to  sun- 
set. At  nine  of  the  clock  I'll  be  here  again.  Put 
everything  you  have  on  —  put  your  long  cut  hair  — 
into  the  smallest  bundle  you  may.  So,  if  I  win  you 
forth  as  a  youth,  my  helper  —  God  blinding  them  to 
the  fact  that  I  never  brought  you  in !  —  they  '11  find 
no  stitch  of  you  to-morrow.  '  The  witch  —  the 

283 


THE  WITCH 

witch  hath  vanished  into  thin  air!    No  other  one 
than  Master  Satan  did  ever  help  her  forth!" 

"And  when  I'm  forth?"  said  Joan. 

"  One  thing  at  a  time! "  answered  the  new  gaoler. 
"A  before  B;  bud  before  flower!  Roads  may  open. 
Here's  no  road  at  all." 

"And  that's  true,"  said  Joan.  "But  all  the 
others?" 

Gervaise  gazed  at  her  with  his  head  on  one  side. 
"The  others  —  the  others!  How  do  you  think  it 
possible  that  I  should  make  a  complete  gaol  deliv- 
ery? It  is  not  possible  —  not  in  the  least  possible." 

"Why  do  you  choose  out  me?  And  I  thank  you, 
Gervaise,  but  I  think  that  I  will  not  go." 

Gervaise  looked  at  her  with  light  blue  eyes,  not 
sharp  but  penetrative,  with  a  kind  of  basal,  earth 
understanding.  "You  listen  to  me,  Joan,  and  while 
you  listen,  just  bear  in  mind  that  this  is  a  dangerous 
business !  Figure  some  authority  out  there  storming, 
'Where,  in  Cerberus's  name,  is  the  new  gaoler?' 
Keep  that  in  mind,  I  say,  and  that  time's  gold — 
gold?  —  nay,  rubies  and  diamonds !  Now,  look  you ! 
'T  is  no  easy  jaunt,  forth  from  this  prison  and  town, 
to  some  land  of  safety  for  witches  and  warlocks! 
Naught  but  courage  and  wit  and  strength  and  good 
luck  by  the  armful  will  make  it  —  and  a  crowd 
would  never  make  it !  There  are  two  who  are  not  to 
suffer  death  —  but  if  they  tried  to  flee  and  were 
taken,  as,  of  course,  they  most  likely  would  be,  they 
would  suffer  it!  Common  sense  saith,  'Those  two 

284 


ESCAPE 

are  better  where  they  are/  The  old  woman  named 
Dorothy  died  to-day.  She 's  gone  anyhow  —  made 
her  escape  clean,  with  Death  and  the  scythe  and 
hourglass.  Do  you  think  that  Mother  Spuraway 
could  be  dragged  free  —  do  you  think  that  she  could 
run  and  lie  hidden  and  disguise  herself,  and  starve  if 
need  be?  For  Grace  Maybank  —  she  hath  pleaded 
that  she  is  with  child,  and  is  not  to  be  hanged  until 
the  elfling  is  born.  Naught  can  be  done  there.  And 
Elspeth  No- Wit  sits  and  laughs,  and  the  sweetest 
words  would  not  persuade  her  forth."  He  ceased 
speaking  and  stood  with  his  light  blue  eyes  upon  her. 

"There  is,"  said  Joan,"  one  other." 

"Aye,  aye,"  said  Gervaise.  "Well,  you  see  mine 
is  the  kindly  feeling  to  youward,  and  Sir  Richard's 
is  the  kindly  feeling  to  himward.  Not  that  Sir 
Richard  hath  not  a  kindly  feeling  to  youward  like- 
wise! But,  I  know  not  why,  he  hath  the  greatest 
liking  for  the  sorcerer!" 

"Aye,"  said  Joan.   "And  after?" 

"  In  fact,"  said  Gervaise,  "  and  though  I  would  not 
hurt  your  feelings,  making  you  seem  of  less  import- 
ance to  yourself,  this  is  a  rescue  planned  in  the  first 
place  for  the  sorcerer  and  not  for  the  witch!  But 
when  I  am  brought  in  —  having,  see  you,  watched 
you  from  a  nook  in  the  crowd  through  the  trial  —  I 
say  to  Sir  Richard.  .  .  .  More  than  my  saying,  the 
sorcerer  makes  some  such  catechism  as  you  've  been 
making,  and  will  only  have  freedom  on  terms.  So 
Sir  Richard  nods  and  agrees.  Double  peril!  But  if 

285 


THE  WITCH 

he  will  not  come  forth  else?  Then  I  may  say  that 
Sir  Richard,  too,  marked  you,  if  for  a  witch,  then 
a  brave  witch,  and  that  he  hath  a  taste  for  the 
quality." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  Master  Aderhold  escapes  this 
night?" 

"' Escapes'!  —  'escapes'!  I  know  not  who  es- 
capes. It's  full  of  peril.  But  Humphrey  Lantern, 
who  takes  him  bread  and  water,  served  under  Sir 
Richard  in  the  wars.  He's  weary  of  turning  keys, 
and  hath  an  itch  to  see  far  countries.  I  know  not ; 
Fate's  got  it  all  hidden.  —  But  if  the  stars  are 
propitious,  you  might  touch  another  prisoner's  hand 
on  the  dark,  windy  road." 

He  stopped  speaking.  Joan  took  up  the  braided 
straws  and  laid  them  again  in  patterns,  then 
brushed  them  aside.  She  sat  with  one  hand  in  the 
other,  her  eyes  upon  the  wall.  Then  she  stood  up, 
tall  in  her  ragged  gown.  "Thank  you,  Gervaise!  If 
it  goes  wrong,  save  yourself,  for  no  worse  harm  can 
come  to  me.  I'll  make  ready." 

The  sunset  light  dyed  the  town,  the  looping  river, 
the  castle  on  the  hill,  the  great  church,  and  the  pri- 
son a  pale  red.  The  glow  faded,  night  came  down. 
Within  the  prison  every  passageway  was  dim 
enough;  here  a  smoky  light  and  there  at  a  distance 
another,  and  all  between  a  wavering  dusk.  The  new 
gaoler  and  a  youth,  whom  he  mentioned  to  one  they 
met  as  his  nephew  and  helper,  pursued  these  pas- 
sages with  a  slow  step  and  a  halt  here  and  a  halt 

286 


ESCAPE 

there,  as  the  gaoler's  duties  presented  themselves. 
.  .  .  But  at  last  they  turned  a  corner  and  saw  before 
them  a  low  portal.  "Win  through  that  and  we're 
outside ! "  muttered  Gervaise.  "  I  've  the  key  —  and 
it  would  make  a  story,  my  getting  it!  Oiled,  too." 

Right  and  left  and  behind  them  they  saw  no  one. 
He  stopped.  The  key  went  in  noiselessly,  turned 
noiselessly,  the  door  opened  outward,  they  felt, 
instead  of  the  heavy  breath  of  the  gaol,  the  air  of  the 
wide  night.  They  stepped  into  an  alley,  black  as 
pitch.  Gervaise  stooped,  reinserted  the  key,  and 
turned  it.  "Lock  Discovery  in  overnight,  anyway! 
Take  the  key  and  drop  it  in  the  river  with  your 
bundle." 

Joan  touched  his  arm.  "There  are  two  men  stand- 
ing yonder  by  the  wall." 

Gervaise  nodded.  "There 's  hope  they  're  Lantern 
and  the  other.  We  agreed  — " 

They  crept  toward  the  two.  Hope  changed  to 
certainty.  There  were  some  whispered  words;  then 
in  the  darkness  the  four  figures  stole  forward,  away 
from  the  prison  walls  that  towered  like  the  very 
form  of  Death.  The  night  was  black  and  quiet,  but 
at  the  mouth  of  the  alley  as  they  left  it  for  the  wide 
darkness  of  the  square  they  heard  voices,  and  staves 
striking  against  the  stones,  and  saw  the  lanterns  of 
the  watch.  The  pillory  was  at  hand ;  they  drew  into 
its  shadow,  pressing  close  beneath  the  platform. 

Swinging  lanterns,  forms  ebon  and  tawny,  foot- 
steps, voices,  approached,  seemed  to  envelop  them, 

287 


THE  WITCH 

passed,  lessened  in  bulk  toward  the  High  Street. 
The  orange  spheres  of  light  dwindled  to  points,  the 
voices  from  frightfully  hoarse  and  loud  thinned  to  a 
murmur  afar.  The  four,  Gervaise  leading,  moved 
from  the  pillory,  friendly  for  once,  and  struck  across 
the  considerable  open  place.  The  hour  was  late  and 
the  townspeople  housed.  They  saw  no  one  in  all  the 
square.  But  as  they  came  into  the  shadow  of  the 
great  church  tower  they  again  heard  voices  nearing 
them  —  roistering  voices  of  young  men,  petty  gal- 
lants and  citizens'  sons,  homeward  bound  from 
some  place  of  drinking  and  outcasts'  favours.  "The 
church  porch,"  motioned  Gervaise.  Like  swallows 
they  sped  across  and  lodged  themselves  in  the 
shadow- filled,  cavernous  place. 

The  roisterers  came  close,  elected,  indeed,  just 
here  to  arrest  their  steps  and  finish  out  a  dispute. 
"Black  eyes  are  best!"  averred  one.  "Grey  eyes? 
Faugh !  That  vilest  Hawthorn  witch  hath  grey  eyes ! 
Ha,  ha!  Eyes  like  Joan  Heron!" 

"That  she  hath  not !  They  are  green.  A  grey  eye  is 
well  enough!  That  vile  witch's  are  green." 

"Grey." 

"  I  tell  thee  I  saw  them,  green  and  wicked!  Green 
beneath  red  gold  hair." 

1 '  Grey !  Grey  as  the  sea,  and  hair  like  wheat  when 
it  is  cut." 

" Thou  fool— " 

" Thou  knave— " 

"Thou  villain  to  liken  my  mistress's  eye  to  that  of 
288 


ESCAPE 

a  vile  witch  and  devil's  whore !  My  sword  shall  make 
thee  eat  it—" 

"Will  it?  Will  it?  Out,  tuck— " 

But  a  third  and  fourth,  wiser  or  less  flushed  with 
wine,  struck  between.  "Will  you  have  the  watch 
upon  us  and  be  clapped  up  for  whether  a  vile  witch's 
eyes  are  grey  or  green?  Grey  or  green  or  blue  or 
black  or  brown,  ere  the  month  be  gone  the  crows 
will  pick  them  out!  Put  up  your  blades!  —  I  told 
you  so !  The  watch  — ' ' 

True  it  was  that  the  watch  was  coming  back.  The 
roisterers  fell  suddenly  into  hushed  and  amicable 
converse,  began  to  move,  too,  from  before  the 
church.  But  the  watch  were  coming  hastily,  were 
already  within  eyeshot  of  the  porch.  It  was  not  so 
dark  now,  either. 

"The  moon  is  up,"  muttered  Gervaise.  "We 
should  have  been  clear  of  the  town — • " 

It  was  rising,  indeed,  above  the  housetops.  The 
watch  and  the  young  men  were  in  parley,  fifty  yards 
away.  The  four  from  the  prison  pressed  more  closely 
into  the  shadow  of  the  pillars.  They  stood  in  black- 
ness and  watched  the  full  round  moon  silver  the 
houses  and  the  uneven  floor  of  the  square.  The 
moonbeams  touched  the  portal,  picked  out  the  car- 
ven  figures  that  adorned  it.  Watch  and  the  explan- 
atory tavern  group,  voices  and  glowworm  lanterns 
moved  farther,  lessened  into  distance,  disappeared 
in  the  dark  mouth  of  some  street.  Windows  had 
been  opened,  householders  were  looking  forth.  It 

289 


THE  WITCH 

needed  to  wait  until  all  was  again  peace  and  sleeping 
time. 

Aderhold  spoke  for  the  first  time  since  the  four 
had  left  the  prison  alley.  The  apprentice  youth 
stood  near  him.  They  leaned  against  the  one  pillar, 
and  though  they  thought  not  of  it,  they  had  among 
other  seemings,  in  the  lapping  light  and  darkness, 
the  seeming  of  two  bound  to  one  stake.  He  spoke  in 
a  whisper.  "You  are  not  afraid?'* 

"No." 

"  I  knew  that  you  would  not  be.  Little  worse  can 
come,  and  something  that  is  better  may." 

"Yes.  ...  I  had  rather  sink  trying." 

The  moon  whitened  the  carvings  of  the  porch. 
Grotesque  after  grotesque  came  into  the  light:  the 
man  with  the  head  of  a  wolf,  the  woman  with  a  bat 
spreading  its  wings  across  her  eyes,  the  demons,  the 
damned,  the  beatified  exulting  over  the  damned,  fox 
and  goat  and  ape  crossed  with  man  and  woman. 
The  silver,  calm  light  turned  all  from  black  to  grey. 
The  wind  whispered,  the  nearer  stars  shone,  the 
moon  travelled  her  ancient  road  and  threw  trans- 
formed sunlight  upon  the  earth.  The  minutes  passed, 
the  town  lay  fast  asleep. 

Gervaise  moved  from  the  porch,  the  others  fol- 
lowed. They  would  not  pass  through  the  town ;  they 
took  a  steep  street  which  led  them  first  down  to  the 
river,  and  then,  as  steeply  mounting,  up  to  the  castle 
wood.  They  went  in  silence,  with  a  rapid  step,  and 
came  without  mishap  under  the  shadow  of  the  sum- 

290 


ESCAPE 

mer  trees.  Here  was  a  wall  which  they  climbed, 
dropping  from  its  top  into  fern  and  brush.  Joan 
knew  the  path  that  they  took,  a  skirting  path, 
walled  with  bracken,  arched  over  by  oak  boughs. 
They  heard  wild  things  moving,  but  no  human 
tongue  questioned  them.  It  was  cool  and  dim,  and 
because  the  moon  was  riding  high  and  they  must 
make  all  haste,  they  ran  along  this  path  which 
stretched  a  mile  and  more.  Gervaise  was  light  and 
spare  as  a  jester;  the  wry-mouthed,  surly,  one-time 
soldier  strong  enough,  though  somewhat  rusty  in  the 
joints;  Aderhold  was  a  thinker  who  lived  much  out 
of  doors,  a  leech  who  walked  to  his  patients,  and 
where  there  was  need  walked  fast ;  Joan,  a  woman  of 
Arcady,  with  a  step  as  light  as  a  panther's.  These 
two  had  behind  them  prison  inaction  and  weaken- 
ing, prison  fare,  anxiety,  despair,  strain,  and  tor- 
ment. They  were  not  in  health  and  strength  as  they 
had  been.  But  instinct  furnished  a  mighty  spur;  if 
they  must  run  to  live,  they  would  run!  They  ran  in 
the  scented  darkness,  the  bracken  brushing  their 
arms,  the  moon  sending  against  them,  between  the 
oak  boughs,  a  silver  flight  of  hurtless  arrows.  The 
mile  was  overpast,  the  path  widened  into  a  moon- 
lit vale,  the  vale  swept  downward  to  a  fringing  cliff, 
by  day  not  formidable,  but  difficult  in  this  gliding, 
watery  light.  The  four,  with  some  risk  of  broken 
limbs,  swung  themselves  down  by  jutting  root  and 
stone,  dropped  at  last  a  sheer  twelve  feet,  and  found 
themselves  clear  of  the  wood  and  the  castle  heights, 

291 


THE  WITCH 

clear  of  the  town,  out  upon  the  grassy  edge  of  the 
London  road.  It  stretched  before  them,  gleaming, 
bare,  silent  as  to  the  feet  which  even  now  might  be 
coming  after  them,  silent  as  to  whether  or  no  they 
would  outstrip  those  feet,  silent  as  to  the  ends  that  it 
would  serve.  They  lay  for  a  minute  upon  the  bank, 
breathing -hard,  regathering  force.  An  owl  hooted, 
Tu-whoo!  Tu-whoo!  They  rose  from  the  wayside 
growth  and  took  the  road.  It  ran  so  hard  and  gleam- 
ing—  it  might  be  a  friend,  it  might  be  an  enemy! 
Over  them  soared  the  night,  far  off  they  saw  sleeping 
houses.  The  air  was  astir,  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
dancing  on  the  road. 

They  measured  a  mile,  two  miles.  The  road 
climbed  somewhat;  before  them,  in  the  flooding 
moonlight,  they  saw  a  gibbet  with  its  arm  and  down- 
hanging  chains. 

"I  know  this  place,"  said  Aderhold. 

The  wry-mouthed  man  wagged  his  head.  "  Creak, 
creak !  Once  I  saw  fifty  such  in  a  lane,  and  the  air  was 
black  with  birds !  This  one 's  stood  clean  for  a  year." 

It  was  like  a  letter  against  the  sky.  Joan  stared  at 
it.  Her  lips  parted.  "I  would  cut  it  down  and  set 
fire  to  it,  and  warm  some  beggar  and  her  child." 

Gervaise  was  looking  about  him.  "The  cross- 
roads are  not  far  from  here.  He  said  — " 

"Stand  still.  There's  a  horseman  there." 

Gervaise  nodded  his  head  and  continued  to  move 
forward.  The  horseman  moved  from  the  lane  mouth 
into  the  road.  Even  before  Gervaise  turned  and 

292 


ESCAPE 

beckoned,  Aderhold  saw  who  it  was.    "The  man 
with  the  hawk,"  he  said,  and  smiled. 

The  man  of  the  hawk  and  of  the  silver  box  dis- 
mounted, threw  the  reins  over  his  horse's  neck,  and 
stepped  forward  to  meet  them.  Road  and  lane  and 
fields,  the  heap  of  rock  amid  foxgloves  where  Ader- 
hold had  sat  one  summer  afternoon,  the  knoll 
crowned  by  the  gibbet  —  all  lay  bare  of  human  life, 
whitened  by  the  moon. 

"Ha,  philosopher!"  said  Sir  Richard.  "  Places 
called  of  ill  omen  are  often  just  the  other  way 
round !  Well  met  again,  under  a  harmless  tree ! "  He 
put  out  his  hand. 

Aderhold  clasped  it.  "Poor  enough  to  say,  'I 
thank  you,  friend!'  And  yet  enough  when  it  is  the 
very  truth.  I  thank  you,  friend!" 

He  spoke  to  Joan.  "This  is  the  man  who  opened 
our  prison  doors." 

She  came  and  stood  beside  him.  "  I  thank  you, 
sir.  May  you  be  through  all  time  a  friend  to  folk  and 
find  them  friends  to  you!" 

She  stood  tall  and  straight  in  man's  dress.  She 
had  cut  away  the  lengths  of  hair.  A  man's  cap 
rested  upon  the  short,  thick  locks.  At  first  she  made 
no  motion  to  remove  this  cap;  instead,  as  she  faced 
Sir  Richard,  she  made,  involuntarily,  the  bend  of 
knee  that  formed  a  curtsy;  then,  as  instantly,  she 
caught  herself,  recovered  her  height,  and  lifting  her 
hand  doffed  the  cap,  and  stood  with  it  held  against 
her  breast. 

293 


THE  WITCH 

The  man  from  the  castle  gave  a  genial  laugh. 
There  was  admiration  in  the  sound.  "  Quick  to 
learn !  A  flexible  free  mind  —  and  courage !  Good 
youth,  I  seem  to  remember  you  at  the  old  hunts- 
man's house." 

"At  times  my  father  wrote  for  you,  please  you, 
Sir  Richard.  And  twice  or  thrice  you  came  and  sat 
in  the  porch  and  talked  with  him  and  my  uncle. 
And  once  it  was  cherry  time,  and  I  brought  you  a 
dish  of  cherries." 

"I  remember!  And  then  you  both  went  away." 
His  kindly  look  dwelled  upon  her.  "  I  watched  you 
through  that  five-days'  comedy  in  the  Judgement 
Hall  yonder.  I  found  it  worth  my  mind's  while  to 
watch  you ;  no  less  worth  it  than  to  watch  this  other 
that  they  called  servant  of  Evil!  As  for  thanks, 
it  is  yet  to  be  seen  if  there  is  much  reason."  He 
spoke  to  them  both.  "I  am  putting  you  on  the 
road  to  the  nearest  port,  and  when  you  reach  it 
I  can  bring  you  to  a  ship  there.  But  before  you 
reach  it,  you  may  be  taken,  and  if  you  reach  it  and 
enter  the  ship,  I  cannot  answer  for  what  will  come  to 
you  afterwards  in  life.  I  may  be  no  friend  at  all." 

" Friend,  whatever  comes,"  said  Aderhold.  "If 
we  die  to-morrow,  friend  on  the  other  side  of  that." 

"We'll  touch  hands  on  that,"  answered  Sir 
Richard.  "And  now,  seeing  that  you  must  go  on  to 
the  cross-roads,  I  will  speak  while  we  walk." 

They  put  themselves  into  motion,  five  human 
figures  now  upon  the  road,  and  the  horse  following 

294 


ESCAPE 

his  master.  The  two  escaped  prisoners  and  their 
helper  moved  ahead;  behind  them  came  Gervaise 
and  the  gaoler,  discoursing  in  whispers.  The  moon 
shone  down,  the  wind  took  a  harp-like  tone. 

"At  the  cross-roads  you  four  —  Humphrey  Lan- 
tern, that  was  a  good  man-at-arms  in  the  Low 
Countries,  and  Gervaise,  a  born  wanderer  and  a  man 
of  mine  between  long  flittings,  and  one  Giles  Allen, 
a  chirurgeon,  and  John  his  brother  — •  will  take  the 
road  that  runs  to  the  port.  If  you  reach  it  or  reach  it 
not,  one  wiser  than  I  may  tell!  Gervaise  knows  a 
place  where  you  may  lie  hidden  to-morrow,  going  on 
at  nightfall.  You  may  or  may  not  save  yourselves. 
On  the  way  thither  I  can  give  you  but  my  wishes. 
But  when  you  come  to  the  port,  —  if  you  come  to 
the  port,  —  go  at  once  to  the  harbour  and  find  out 
the  Silver  Queen.'*  He  gave  a  packet  wrapped  in  silk 
to  Aderhold.  "  Give  the  letter  therein  to  the  captain. 
There  is  also  a  purse.  —  Nay,  the  thing  must  be 
done  rightly!" 

"The  Silver  Queen." 

"The  Silver  Queen,  sailing  to  Virginia.  I  have  a 
venture  in  her,  and  the  captain  owes  me  somewhat. 
She  carries  a  Virginia  lading  of  adventurers  and  in- 
dentured men.  —  In  Virginia  are  forests  and  savage 
men  and  wild  beasts,  but  less  preoccupation,  maybe, 
with  Exclusive  Salvation  and  the  Guilt  of  Doubt  — 
though  even  in  Virginia  a  still  tongue  were  certainly 
best!- — To  Virginia  is  the  only  help  that  I  can  give." 

"I  am  content,"  said  Aderhold. 
295 


THE  WITCH 

The  man  of  the  hawk  looked  at  Joan. 

"  I  am  content,"  she  said. 

* '  Good ! ' '  said  Sir  Richard.  ' '  Humphrey  Lantern 
is  all  for  adventure  and  a  new  world.  But  Gervaise, 
when  he  has  seen  you  safely  shipped,  will  manage  to 
cross  to  Ireland  and  take  service  for  a  time  with  my 
brother  there.  Next  year  I  'm  for  France,  and  I  look 
to  find  Gervaise  dropped  like  an  acorn  on  the  road 
to  Paris.  But  Lantern  goes  with  you.  What,  good 
Humphrey,  is  now  your  name?" 

The  red-faced,  wry-mouthed  man  scratched  his 
head.  "I  had  n't  thought,  Your  Honour.  .  .  .  George 
is  a  good  name  —  George  Dragon,  Sir  Richard." 

The  little  company  fell  silent,  walking  in  the 
mooonlight  upon  a  road  bare  as  a  sword.  .  .  .  Behind 
Joan  and  Aderhold  receded  the  old  life,  sunk  away 
the  town,  the  road  to  Hawthorn  and  Hawthorn  and 
its  church,  the  Oak  Grange  and  Hawthorn  Forest, 
people  a  many,  the  two  Carthews,  Master  Thomas 
Clement,  Alison,  Cecily,  other  names,  folk  a  many, 
things  done  and  suffered,  old  life.  Before  them 
stretched  something  new,  strange  life,  bare  as  yet 
of  feature  as  the  road  before  them.  Their  imagina- 
tions were  not  busy  with  it;  they  left  it  veiled,  but 
yet  they  felt  its  presence.  .  .  .  Undoubtedly,  even  at 
this  moment,  even  earlier  than  this  moment,  their 
escape  might  be  discovered.  Already  the  hue  and 
cry  might  be  raised.  Even  now  the  finders  might  be 
on  their  track.  They  might  be  seized  long  ere  they 
could  reach  the  port,  or,  having  reached  it,  before 

296 


ESCAPE 

they  could  reach  the  Silver  Queen.  The  Silver 
Queen  might  be  searched  before  it  sailed.  They 
might  be  dragged  back.  The  gallows  and  the  stake 
might  be  cheated  no  moment  of  their  prey.  They 
might  again  see  Hawthorn  faces.  They  knew  all 
this,  but  their  thought  did  not  dwell  upon  it.  Their 
minds  saw  dimly  something  new,  bare  yet  of  feature. 
The  man  of  the  hawk  walked  musing  beside  Ader- 
hold.  At  last  he  spoke.  "We  are  not  far  from  the 
cross-roads.  When  we  are  there  you  will  go  your 
ways  and  I  shall  turn  and  go  back  to  the  castle.  .  .  . 
If  we  grow  by  means  of  all  circumstance  as  it  flows 
by  and  through  us,  how  are  you  changed  by  what 
has  lately  passed?" 

"This  summer,"  said  Aderhold,  "  I  grew  somewhat 
past  bodily  fear.    I  should  like  you  to  know  that." 
"I  saw  no  great  cowardice  before.  .  .  .  How  now 
do  you  feel  toward  your  fellow  man?" 
"My  fellow  man  is  myself." 
"And  toward  that  which  we  call  God?" 

"As  I  did I  seek  that  which  is  high  within  me." 

The  other  nodded.  "I  understand.  .  .  ."  They 
walked  on  in  silence  until  they  saw  before  them  the 
crossroads.  Aderhold  remembered  the  ragged  trees, 
the  dyke-like  bank,  the  stake  through  the  heart  of 
the  suicide.  The  night  was  wearing  late.  The  moon 
shone  small  and  high.  Charles's  Wain  was  under  the 
North  Star.  The  five  came  to  a  stand,  and  here  the 
four  said  good-bye  to  the  one. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE   ROAD   TO   THE   PORT 

THEIR  side  of  the  earth  turned,  turned  with  cease- 
less motion  toward  the  central  orb.  There  grew  a 
sense  of  the  threshold  of  dawn,  of  the  chill  and  sunk- 
en furthest  hour,  when  the  need  was  great  for  the 
door  of  light  to  open.  The  road  they  were  upon  was 
narrower,  rougher,  than  the  highway  ,with  more  hills 
to  climb.  The  four  travelled  as  rapidly  as  was  pos- 
sible, there  being  a  goal  to  be  reached  before  sun- 
light and  the  world  abroad.  Gervaise  and  Lantern 
swung  on  without  overmuch  effort,  but  the  faces  of 
Joan  and  Aderhold  were  drawn  and  the  beads  stood 
on  their  foreheads.  Behind  them  were  long  prison, 
scanty  fare,  bodily  hurt,  broken  strength.  Their 
lips  parted,  their  breath  came  gaspingly.  They  went 
on  from  moment  to  moment,  each  step  now  a  weari- 
ness, all  thought  suspended,  the  whole  being  bent 
only  on  endurance,  on  measuring  the  road  that  must 
be  measured.  They  did  not  speak,  though  now  and 
then  one  turned  eyes  to  the  other. 

Far  off  a  cock  crew  and  was  answered  by  an- 
other. Vaguely  the  air  changed,  the  world  paled,  a 
steely  light  came  into  the  east.  Gervaise  looked  at 
the  two.  "We'll  rest  here  until  there's  colour  in 
the  sky.  We've  come  pretty  fast."  There  was  a 

298 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

great  stone  by  the  road.  Aderhold  and  Joan  sank 
upon  it,  lay  outstretched,  still  as  in  the  last  sleep. 
He  had  a  wide  cloak,  she  had  none.  He  raised 
himself  upon  his  hand  and  spread  over  her  the  half 
of  this.  They  lay  with  closed  eyes,  drinking  rest. 

Far  off  and  not  so  far,  more  cocks  were  crowing. 
In  the  eastern  sky  the  bars  of  grey  turned  purple, 
then  into  them  came  a  faint  red.  The  birds  were 
cheeping  in  the  tree-tops.  The  mist  veil  over  field 
and  meadow  grew  visible.  Gervaise  and  Lantern, 
who  had  been  seated  with  their  knees  drawn  up, 
arms  upon  knees  and  head  upon  arms,  raised  their 
eyes,  marked  the  red  in  the  sky,  and  got  to  their  feet. 
Gervaise  went  and  touched  the  two.  "Time  to  go 
on !  We  Ve  got  to  get  hidden  before  Curiosity 's  had 
breakfast." 

They  went  on,  the  light  strengthening,  the  air 
warming,  a  myriad  small  sounds  beginning.  In  less 
than  a  mile  they  came  to  a  branching  road,  rough 
and  narrow.  Gervaise  leading,  they  entered  this, 
followed  it  for  some  distance,  and  left  it  for  a  half- 
obliterated  cart  track  running  through  woods. 
In  turn  they  quitted  the  woods  for  a  stubblefield, 
plunged  from  this  into  a  sunken  lane,  and  so  in  the 
early  sunlight  came  before  a  small  farmhouse,  re- 
mote and  lonely,  couched  and  hidden  between 
wooded  hills.  "My  granther's  brother's  house," 
said  Gervaise.  "Stay  you  all  here  while  I  go  spy  out 
the  land."  They  waited  in  the  sunken  lane,  the  blue 
sky  overhead.  The  wry-mouthed  man  busied  him- 

299 


THE  WITCH 

self  with  a  torn  shoe.  Joan  and  Aderhold  knelt  in  a 
warm  hollow  of  the  bank,  leaned  against  the  good 
earth. 

"Giles  and  John  Allen,11  he  said.  " Do  not  forget 
the  names." 

"No.  .  .  .  When  I  speak  to  you,  am  I  to  say, 
'Giles'?" 

"Aye,  —  aye,  John." 

"Do  you  think  they  will  not  know  that  I  am  a 
woman?" 

He  looked  at  her  critically  for  the  first  time.  "  You 
have  height  and  a  right  frame.  Your  voice  is  deeper 
than  most  women's.  Now  that  your  hair  is  cut,  I 
have  seen  youths  with  locks  so  worn  and  of  that 
colour  and  thickness.  You  are  pale  from  prison  and 
unhappiness,  but  the  sun  will  tan  your  cheeks.  You 
have  mind  and  will,  and  all  that  you  do  you  do  with 
a  just  art.  Discovery  may  come,  but  it  need  not 
come  —  '* 

Gervaise  reappeared.  "It's  all  right!  The  old 
people  will  not  blab,  and  their  two  daughters  and 
the  ploughman  have  propitiously  gone  to  a  fair! 
Now,  Master  Allen,  and  your  brother,  and  good 
George  Dragon  — "  They  moved  toward  the  house. 
Gervaise  jerked  his  thumb  toward  a  barn  that 
showed  beyond.  "Good  straw  —  good,  warm,  dusk 
corner  to  lie  perdu  in,  back  of  the  eaves !  I' 11  bring 
food,  bread  and  milk.  So  you'll  have  your  rest  to- 
day, and  to-night  we  '11  cover  as  many  miles  as  may 
be.  —  This  way!  We'll  not  go  through  the  house. 

300 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

Say  we  're  taken,  I  'd  rather  not  drag  the  good  folk 
in  more  than  ankle-deep." 

The  barn  was  dim  and  wholesome-smelling.  The 
piled  straw  in  the  loft  felt  good  beneath  aching 
frames.  They  made  with  bundles  of  it  a  chance- 
seeming  barrier,  behind  which  in  a  fragrant  hollow 
they  prepared  to  rest.  Close  overhead  was  the 
brown  roof  that,  beyond  their  niche,  sloped  steeply 
upward  a  great  distance.  A  square  had  been  cut  for 
light  and  air;  through  it  poured  vagrant,  scented 
breezes,  and  in  and  out  flew  the  swallows.  The  light 
was  thick  and  brown ;  it  would  take  keen  eyes  to  see 
aught  but  straw,  rudely  heaped.  Gervaise  brought  a 
basket  filled  with  homely,  country  fare,  and  then  a 
great  jug  of  spring  water.  They  ate  and  drank,  and 
then  set  watches  —  one  to  watch  while  the  others 
slept.  Humphrey  Lantern  took  the  first. 

Rest  was  sweet,  sleep  was  sweet.  .  .  .  Joan  woke 
sometime  in  the  early  afternoon.  There  in  a  hollow  of 
his  own  sat  Gervaise,  succeeded  to  Lantern's  watch. 
He  sat,  blue-eyed  and  meditative,  chewing  a  straw. 
Lantern  sprawled  at  a  little  distance,  in  sleep  back, 
perhaps,  in  the  old  wars.  Nearer  lay  Aderhold,  his 
arm  thrown  across  his  eyes,  profoundly  sleeping.  At 
first  Joan  was  bewildered  and  did  not  know  where 
she  was ;  then  the  whole  surged  back.  She  lay  quite 
still,  and  memory  painted  for  her  picture  after 
picture. 

Presently  Gervaise,  glancing  her  way,  saw  that  her 
eyes  were  open.  He  nodded  to  her  and  crept  over 

301 


THE  WITCH 

the  straw  until  they  were  close  neighbours,  when  he 
seated  himself  Turk  fashion  and  asked  if  she  had 
slept. 

She  laughed.   "Unless  I  was  dead,  I  was  asleep." 

"He  has  not  moved.  Prison  life's  a  hard  life,  and 
then  I  understand  that  before  that  he  was  up  day 
and  night  with  the  plague.  .  .  .  Well,  and  what  do 
you  think  of  the  wide  world  before  you?" 

"Is  it  so  wide?" 

"That's  as  you  take  it.  It's  as  wide  as  your  vi- 
sion, your  taste,  and  your  hearing." 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  be  hanged.  ...  It  used  to  come 
and  gather  round  me  when  I  slept,  there  in  the  dun- 
geon, in  the  prison.  First  the  place  grew  large,  and 
then  it  filled  with  people,  —  I  could  feel  them  in  the 
dark,  —  and  then  I  knew  where  the  gallows  was, 
and  hands  that  burned  me  and  bruised  me  put  a 
rope  around  my  neck,  and  in  the  dark  the  people 
began  to  laugh  and  curse.  And  then  I  woke  up,  and 
my  hands  and  arms  were  cold  and  wet,  and  I  said, 
'So  it  will  be,  and  so  the  rope  will  feel,  and  so  they 
will  laugh!'  .  .  .  Over  and  over.  .  .  .  But  it  did  not 
come  to  me  here,  though  I  was  asleep.  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  they  will  take  us  now." 

"Do  you  believe  in  witches  and  black  men  and 
Satan  and  his  country?" 

"I  used  to.  Is  n't  every  little  child  taught  it?  It's 
hard  to  rub  out  what  they  taught  you  when  you 
were  a  child.  But  do  I  believe  it  now?"  She 
laughed  with  a  bitter  mirth.  "My  oath,  on  anything 

302 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

you  please,  that  I  do  not  believe  it  now!  I  believe 
that  some  folk  have  more  good  than  bad  in  them, 
and  a  few  have  far  more  good  than  bad.  And  that 
some  folk  have  more  bad  than  good  in  them,  and  a 
few  have  far  more  bad  than  good.  And  that  most 
folk  are  pretty  evenly  mixed,. and  that  now  one  hav- 
ing walks  forth  and  now  another.  But  that  we  are 
all  folk." 

"That  presents  well  enough,"  said  Gervaise,  "my 
manner  of  thinking.  But  then  I  have  lived  long 
with  Sir  Richard." 

They  fell  silent.  A  bird  flew  in  at  the  window. 
The  pleasant,  drowsy  scent  of  the  hay  was  about 
them,  the  sun-shot  dusk,  the  murmur  of  the  wind 
across  the  opening.  "Is  your  watch  nearly  over," 
asked  Joan,  "and  were  you  going  to  wake  him  next? 
I  am  awake  already,  so  give  it  to  me." 

'  *  Nay,  nay, ' '  said  Gervaise ; ' '  neither  to  you  nor  to 
him !  I  '11  sit  here  for  another  two  hours  and  think  of 
the  flowers  I  might  have  grown.  Then  Lantern  will 
take  it  again.  You  two  are  to  get  your  rest.  —  I  like 
well  enough  to  converse  with  you,  but  my  advice  is 
to  shut  your  eyes  and  go  back  to  sleep." 

Joan  smiled  at  him  and  obeyed.  She  shut  her  grey 
eyes,  and  in  two  minutes  was  back  at  the  fountain 
of  rest  for  overwrought  folk.  She  slept,  slept,  and 
Aderhold  slept.  When  they  waked  the  sun  was 
hanging  low  in  the  west.  They  waked  at  a  touch 
from  Gervaise.  "Best  all  of  us  open  our  eyes  and 
pull  our  senses  together!  I  hear  the  two  daughters 

303 


THE  WITCH 

and  the  ploughman,  and  maybe  company  with 
them,  coming  back  from  the  fair." 

There  were  heard,  indeed,  from  the  lane,  not  far 
away,  voices  talking  freely  and  all  together.  Lan- 
tern crept  to  the  window  and  with  care  looked  forth. 
He  came  back.  "  Country  folk  —  five  or  six,  and 
merry  from  the  fair."  The  voices  reached  the  farm- 
house, entered  it,  and  became  muffled.  The  sun 
dropped  behind  the  hills. 

Twilight  was  not  far  advanced  when  there 
sounded  a  footstep  in  the  barn  below  the  hayloft. 
The  four,  still  before,  now  lay  hardly  breathing. 

The  footstep  approached  the  loft,  halted  beside 
the  ladder  that  led  up.  "Gervaise"  said  a  quaver- 
ing, anxious  voice.  "Granther's  brother,"  mur- 
mured Gervaise,  and  crept  cautiously  to  the  edge  of 
the  loft.  Presently  he  disappeared  down  the  ladder, 
and  the  three,  crouched  where  the  roof  was  lowest, 
heard  a  muted  colloquy  below.  The  farmer's  voice 
sounded  alarmed  and  querulous,  Gervaise 's  soothing. 
At  last  they  ceased  to  talk,  and  the  old  man's  slow 
and  discontented  step  was  heard  to  leave  the  barn. 
Gervaise  came  up  the  ladder  and  crawled  over  the 
straw  to  the  escaped  prisoners  and  runaway  gaoler. 
The  loft  was  now  in  darkness,  only  the  square  win- 
dow glimmered  yet,  framing  a  sky  from  which  the 
gold  had  not  quite  faded. 

"  It's  boot  and  saddle,  sound  horn  and  away!"  he 
said  in  a  sober  whisper.  "We  had  not  been  gone  two 
hours  when  some  officious  fool  must  seek  the  heart's 

304 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

ease  of  Lantern's  company!  No  Lantern  to  be  found 
—  all  dark !  No  new  turnkey  to  be  found  either. 
Whereupon  they  waken  an  authority,  and  he's 
inspired  to  open  dungeon  doors  and  look  within! 
Hue  and  cry !  Town  first,  but  with  the  morning  light 
men  a- horseback  on  all  roads.* —  They  had  it  all  at 
the  fair  —  brought  it  all  home.  County's  afire  to 
bring  the  wild  beasts  back.  Country  for  as  many 
miles  as  necessary  will  be  scoured  clean  as  a  prize 
pannikin.  Reward  for  capture,  living  or  dead;  — 
bands  out  to  earn  it.  All  manner  penalties  for  any 
who  harbour.  The  goodman  here  put  two  and  two 
together,  —  matched  four  with  four,  —  and  at  the 
first  chance,  while  they  're  all  at  supper,  comes  shiv- 
ering out  to  warn  us  off.  Granther's  brother  '11  not 
tell,  but  travel  it  is!  —  Humphrey  Lantern,  you  take 
the  basket  with  what  food  's  left.  We  '11  need  it. 
Toss  the  straw  together  so  't  will  not  show  the  lair. 
We'll  just  wait  till  that  last  light  goes." 

They  waited,  felt  their  way  to  the  ladder  and 
down  it,  then  out  of  the  barn.  Voices  were  noisy  in 
the  house  a  stone's  throw  away.  A  woman  came  to 
the  open  door  and  stood  looking  out.  When  she  had 
turned  away,  they  entered  the  lane  and  followed  it 
until  it  set  them  in  the  wood  track  they  had  left  in 
the  morning.  Here  they  paused  to  consider  their 
course.  In  that  direction  so  many  miles,  as  the  crow 
flew,  lay  the  port.  Return  to  the  road  they  had 
left  at  dawn,  strive  to  keep  upon  it  at  least  through 
the  night,  and  so  make  certainly  the  greatest  speed 

305 


THE  WITCH 

toward  their  goal?  Night-time,  and  ordinarily  there 
would  be  none  or  little  travel  through  the  night,  and 
that  little  easily  hidden  from.  But  to-night  the  road 
might  be  most  perilous;  harrow  and  rake  might  be 
dragging  along  it.  Nevertheless  they  decided  for  the 
road. 

It  was  now  utterly  dark.  They  saw  nothing, 
heard  nothing,  but  the  small  continuous  voice  of  the 
hot,  dry  night.  They  were  rested ;  to  Joan  and  Ader- 
hold  especially  there  seemed  to  have  come  anew 
youth  and  strength.  They  walked  steadily,  with  a 
swinging  step,  and  the  country  fell  behind  them  and 
the  sea  grew  nearer.  They  spoke  only  at  long  inter- 
vals and  then  in  whispers. 

" Luck's  with  us,"  offered  Gervaise.  " I'd  almost 
rather  see  it  more  chequered !  Very  Smooth  always 
has  a  mocking  look  in  her  eyes." 

Lantern  growled  in  his  throat.  "I  haven't  had 
much  smooth  in  my  life.  It  owes  me  a  little  smooth." 

The  moon  rose.  It  showed  them  on  either  hand  a 
rolling  country,  and  before  them  a  village.  The  road 
ran  through  this;  therefore,  for  the  time  being,  they 
would  leave  the  road.  They  crept  through  a  hedge 
and  found  themselves  in  a  rough  and  broken  field. 
Crossing  this  they  pierced  a  small  wood  and  dipped 
down  to  a  stream  murmuring  past  a  mill.  The  great 
wheel  rose  before  them,  the  moon  making  pearls  of 
the  dripping  water.  The  stream  had  a  footbridge. 
They  hesitated,  but  all  was  dark  and  silent.  They 
crossed,  and  as  they  stepped  upon  the  beaten  earth 

306 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

on  the  farther  side,  two  dogs  sprang  upon  them  from 
the  shadow  of  the  mill.  They  came  barking  furiously 
—  the  refugees  snatched  what  stick  or  stone  they 
could  reach  and  beat  them  back.  One  was  cowardly 
and  stood  off  and  barked,  but  the  other,  a  great 
black  beast,  sprang  upon  the  first  in  his  path.  It 
chanced  to  be  Joan.  She  caught  him  by  his  own 
throat  before  he  could  reach  hers,  but  he  was  fierce 
and  strong  and  tore  from  her  grasp.  His  teeth  met 
in  the  cloth  of  her  jerkin,  he  dragged  her  to  the 
ground.  Aderhold's  hands  were  at  his  throat,  chok- 
ing his  jaws  open,  pushing  him  backward.  Over  the 
physician's  bent  shoulder  Lantern's  arm  rose  and 
fell,  the  moon  making  the  dagger  gleam.  The  dog 
loosened  his  grip,  howled,  and  gave  back  with  a 
slashed  and  bleeding  muzzle. 

Out  of  a  hut,  built  beside  the  mill,  came  a  man's 
voice,  roughly  threatening.  " Who's  there?  Who's 
there?  Ill-meaning  folk  take  warning!" 

As  they  did  not  answer,  the  owner  of  the  voice 
burst  from  the  hut  and  came  toward  them,  shouting 
to  the  dogs  to  hold  fast  and  swinging  a  great  thorn 
stick.  The  moon  showed  a  half-dressed,  stout  rus- 
tic, bold  enough  but  dull  of  wit,  and  still  heavy, 
besides,  with  sleep.  Behind  him  came  a  half-grown 
boy. 

"Call  off  your  dogs!"  cried  Gervaise.  "We  are 
seamen  ashore,  making  from  the  port  to  the  town  of 

.  They  told  us  there  was  a  village  hereabouts, 

and  we  kept  on  walking  after  night,  thinking  to  come 

307 


THE  WITCH 

to  it.  But  we  think  it 's  bewitched  and  walks  as  we 
walk.  Call  your  dogs  off!  We  're  harmless  men,  used 
to  the  sea  and  crossing  a  strange  country.  Put  us 
right,  friend,  and  thank  you  kindly!" 

"  What  have  you  done  to  Holdfast?  He 's  frighted 
and  bleeding." 

"He  pulled  one  of  us  down  and  nothing  else 
served  to  make  him  loosen  grip.  T  will  heal  and  no 
harm  done ! ' ' 

But  a  controversy  gathered  in  the  eyes  of  the  mil- 
ler's man.  "That  dog's  worth  all  the  'gyptians  and 
vagrants  and  seamen  between  here  and  London 
town!  If  you  think  you're  going  round  murdering 
dogs—" 

"  I  think,"  said  Gervaise,  "that  I  Ve  in  my  pouch 
a  crown  piece  which  I  got  of  a  gentleman  for  a  par- 
rokeet  and  an  Indian  pipe.  Let's  see  if  't  wont  salve 
that  muzzle."  He  drew  it  forth  and  turned  it  to  and 
fro  in  the  moonlight.  "Ask  the  dog.  Hark  'ee!  He 
says,  '  Take  it,  and  let  harmless  sailor  folk  pass ! ' ' 
He  slid  it  into  the  peasant's  hand,  who  stood  looking 
down  upon  it  with  a  dawning  grin.  "Cross  this 
bridge,"  asked  Gervaise,  "and  we'll  be  in  the  path 
to  the  village?" 

"Aye,  aye,"  answered  the  fellow.  "If  you  be 
harmful  folk,  let  them  find  it  out  there !  —  Be  you 
sure  this  piece  is  good?  You  be  n't  coiners  or 
passers?" 

1 '  We  be  n't, "  said  Gervaise.  ' '  The  piece  is  as  good 
as  the  new  breeches  it  will  buy." 

308 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

They  recrossed  the  bridge,  stepping  from  it  into 
the  wood  already  traversed.  The  boy's  shrill  voice 
came  to  them  from  across  the  stream.  ''Father, 
father!  They're  four,  and  't  was  four  the  man  told 
us  broke  gaol!  They  be  n't  sailors  —  they  be  the 
witches! "  His  voice  took  a  bewildered  tone.  " Only 
one  of  them  was  a  woman  —  and  they're  going  to- 
ward the  town  — " 

"What  I  be  going  to  do,"  answered  the  man,  "is  to 
go  up  t'  the  house  and  waken  miller  — " 

The  dogs  were  still  barking.  The  boy's  voice 
rose  shriller  and  shriller.  "  I  know  they  're  witches! 
They  had  glowing  eyes  and  they  were  taller  than 
people  — " 

The  four  plunged  more  deeply  into  the  wood.  The 
confused  sound  died  behind  them .  .  They  went  up 
the  stream  a  mile,  came  upon  a  track  that  ran  down 
to  stepping-stones,  crossed  the  water  for  the  second 
time,  and  once  more  faced  seaward;  then  after  a 
time  turned  at  right  angles  and  so  struck  the  road 
again,  the  village  well  passed.  But  the  detour  had 
cost  them  heavily  in  time.  Moreover,  even  in  the 
night-time,  there  grew  a  feeling  of  folk  aware,  of 
movement,  a  fear  of  eyes,  of  a  sudden  shout  of  arrest. 
.  .  .  They  heard  behind  them  a  trampling  of  horses' 
hoofs,  together  with  voices.  There  was  just  time  to 
break  into  a  friendly  thicket  by  the  roadside,  and 
crouch  there  among  the  hazel  stems,  out  of  the 
moonlight.  There  came  by  a  party  of  men,  some 
a-horseback,  some  on  foot. 

309 


THE  WITCH 

''Four,"  said  one  distinctly. 
" Shall  we  beat  that  thicket?" 
"They  could  n't  have  gotten  this  far." 
" I'll  ride  through  it  to  make  sure  — " 
Man  and  horse  came  into  the  thicket.  They 
passed  within  ten  feet  of  the  four  lying  flat,  but 
touched  them  not  and  saw  them  not.  .  .  .  When  all 
were  gone  the  sorcerer  and  the  witch  and  their  com- 
panions came  forth  and  again  pressed  seaward.  The 
dawn  appeared,  the  sky  unearthly  cold  and  remote 
behind  the  clean  black  line  of  the  earth.  It  showed 
a  homeless  country  for  them.  With  the  first  grey 
gleam  there  began  a  traffic  upon  the  road.  They 
were  passed  in  the  dimness  by  a  pedlar  with  his 
pack,  a  drover  with  sheep.  They  saw  coming  a 
string  of  carts,  and  they  left  the  road  again,  this 
time  for  good.  They  lay  now  amid  heather  upon  a 
moor,  and  in  the  pale,  uncertain  light  considered 
their  course.  The  miles  were  not  many  now  before 
them,  but  they  were  dangerous  miles.  They  decided 
at  last  to  break  company  and,  two  and  two,  to  strive 
for  the  port.  Say  that,  so  they  arrived  there,  then 
would  they  come  as  well  to  an  inner  ring  of  dangers. 
.  .  .  But  they  all  strove  for  cheer,  or  grim  or  bright, 
and  Gervaise  appointed  for  rendezvous  an  obscure 
small  inn  called  The  Moon,  down  by  the  harbour's 
edge.  It  was  kept  by  a  man  known  to  Sir  Richard. 
Get  to  The  Moon,  whisper  a  word  or  two  which 
Gervaise  now  furnished,  and  the  rest  would  probably 
go  well.  The  problem  was  to  get  there. 

310 


THE  ROAD  TO  THE  PORT 

It  was  also  to  decide,  if  they  divided,  who  would 
go  with  whom.  Gervaise  looked  at  Aderhold.  "  Will 
you,  sir,  take  Humphrey  Lantern,  and  Joan  go  with 
me?"  There  was  a  silence,  then  Aderhold  spoke, 
"You  have  proved  yourself  the  best  of  guides  and 
guards.  But  life  has  taught  rrfe,  too,  to  watch  for 
dangers  and  in  some  measure  has  given  me  skill. 
And  she  and  I  are  the  heinous  ones  and  the  desper- 
ate." He  turned  his  eyes  to  Joan.  "Shall  we  not 
keep  together?" 

She  nodded.  "Very  good.  .  .  .  The  sky  is  growing 
red." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   FARTHER  ROAD 

WHAT  were  Gervaise's  and  Lantern's  adventures 
they  would  hear  when  they  reached  The  Moon. 
Their  own,  throughout  this  day,  led  them  to  no 
harm.  They  had  been  for  long  in  the  hand  of  111 
Fortune ;  it  seemed  now  that  she  slept  and  her  grasp 
relaxed.  The  first  outward  happening  came  quickly, 
ere  the  sun  was  an  hour  high.  They  were  crossing 
a  heath-like,  shelterless  expanse,  when  a  sudden 
Hilloa!  halted  them.  Two  men  were  rapidly  ap- 
proaching over  the  heath. 

"If  we  can,  we  will  evade  them,"  said  Aderhold. 
"If  we  cannot  and  they  would  keep  us  by  force — ?  " 

"They  are  not  wrestlers  nor  giants,"  answered 
Joan.  "If  they  have  no  weapon,  mayhap  we  can 
give  them  as  good  as  they  send  — ' ' 

The  two  ran  up,  looked  at  them  suspiciously. 
"What  do  you  here?  Who  are  you?" 

"Nay,  who  are  you?'1  said  Aderhold.  "We  are 
lookers  for  a  reward." 

The  opposing  pairs  stood  and  eyed  each  other. 
The  newcomers  were  two  lank  and  unhealthy-look- 
ing, plainly  dressed,  town -appearing  young  men. 

' '  Fie ! ' '  said  one.  ' '  We  also  search,  but  not  for  love 
312 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD  . 

of  lucre  and  silver  pounds  in  purses!    We  would 
serve  God  by  stamping  his  foes  into  dust!" 

1 '  Which  way  have  you  looked  ? ' ' 

The  more  garrulous  of  the  two  swept  his  arm 
around.  "  Unless  the  Prince  of  the  Power  of  the  Air 
hath  held  them  invisible  to  the  eyes  of  the  Elect, 
they  are  not  in  that  direction  nor  in  that!  My 
companion,  Only  Truth  Turner,  and  I  were  about 
to  seek  in  the  quarter  to  which  I  see  you  are  ad- 
dressed. Let  us,  then,  seek  for  a  while  in  company. 
And  what,  friends,  may  be  your  names?" 

1 '  I  am  Relative  Truth  Allen ,  otherwise  known  as 
Giles  Allen,  and  this  is  my  brother,  Be-ye-kind-to- 
one-Another.  —  Four  together,  is  it  not  so?  Three 
fierce,  foreign-looking  men,  and  a  short,  dark  wo- 
man." 

"We  did  n't,"  said  Only  Truth,  "hear  them  de- 
scribed. But  there  will  assuredly  be  some  devil's 
mark  whereby  to  know  them." 

They  were  now  moving  together  over  the  heath. 
Each  of  the  four  had  a  stout  stick,  broken  at  some 
time  in  their  several  journeyings.  With  theirs  the 
two  townsmen  now  and  again  beat  some  clump  of 
furze  or  thorn.  Once  a  hare  rushed  forth  and  away, 
and  once  a  lark  spread  its  wings  and  soaring  van- 
ished into  the  blue.  "Do  you  think,"  said  the 
speaker,  whose  name  was  Wrath  Diverted,  "do  you 
think  that  that  hare  and  bird  might  have  been  — ? 
I  understand  that  in  the  trial  the  Hawthorn  witches 
all  avowed  that  they  became  bird  or  beast  at  will." 


THE  WITCH 

Aderhold  followed  the  lark  with  his  eyes.  "  I  have 
seen  human  beings  who  reminded  me  of  bird  or 
beast,  and  I  have  seen  bird  and  beast  who  reminded 
me  of  human  beings.  If  that  one  up  yonder  is  a 
witch,  she  hath  strength  of  wing!" 

The  lark  disappeared;  the  hare  came  not  back. 
''Even  so,"  said  Only  Truth,  "there  would  be  two 
left.  But  I  hold  that  those  were  natural  crea- 
tures." 

They  walked  through  the  bright  morning,  over 
the  high  bare  world.  "We  came  out,"  said  Wrath 
Diverted,  "to  see  my  brother  Another- Pays-my- 
Debt  who  dwells  at  Win-Grace  Farm.  Yesterday 
came  news  of  the  loosing  of  Beelzebub.  Whereupon 
many  made  themselves  into  bands  and  went  forth 
even  as  hunters,  and  at  dawn  this  morning  Only 
Truth  and  I  also." 

"Let  us  keep  our  faces  seaward,"  said  Aderhold. 
"You  have  looked  that  way  and  we  have  looked 
this." 

"Good,"  answered  Wrath  Diverted;  "but  we 
should  examine  that  dip  in  the  earth  I  see  yonder." 

They  searched  the  hollow  and  found  naught  to  the 
purpose,  which  done,  they  went  briskly  on,  but  kept 
a  constant  watch  to  right  and  left.  "This  heath," 
said  Wrath  Diverted,  "will  presently  fall  to  tilled 
lands  with  roads  and  dwellings,  byways  and  hedges. 
Then  there  will  be  places  to  search,  but  here  there  is 
naught  —  Were  you  at  the  trial  of  the  troublers  of 
Israel?" 

3H 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

He  spoke  to  Joan.  "No,"  she  answered.  "We 
heard  of  it.  Everybody  heard  of  it." 

"For  my  part,"  said  Only  Truth,  " I  cannot  con- 
ceive how  a  man  when  he  hath  choice  of  masters 
should  choose  so  scurvy  an  one!  Here  is  a  King 
whom  you  may  serve  who,  if  in  this  world  He 
seemeth  at  times  neglectful  of  his  servants  and  nig- 
gardly in  comforts  and  rewards,  yet,  when  you  have 
come  to  the  next  world  which  is  his  true  city  and 
court,  you  have  his  sign  manual  for  it  that  you  will 
have  honours  and  titles  and  riches  without  end! 
Moreover,  your  body  will  be  happy  and  comforted, 
and  you  will  not  again  be  sorrowful  or  tried,  nor  ever 
have  to  work,  but  only  stand  and  praise.  —  Not  so 
with  that  other  man,  who  will  not  kneel  here  nor 
wear  this  Master's  livery!  Comes  King  Satan  and 
claps  him,  '  You  are  mine ! '  Then  mayhap  he  is  led 
to  a  dance  of  unlawful  and  honey-sweet  pleasures,  or 
is  given  a  heap  of  gold,  or  is  dressed  in  a  purple 
mantle  and  given  a  sceptre  to  hold,  or  is  made  drunk 
with  worthless  knowledge!  But  it  is  all  a  show  and 
turneth  to  gall  and  wormwood.  For  incontinent  he 
dieth.  Nay,  oftenest  there  is  not  in  his  hire  the 
honey-sweet  nor  the  gold  and  purple !  For  the  other 
King's  servant  even  here  triumpheth,  and  Satan's 
man  dieth  a  lazar  and  poor,  even  if  he  be  not  hanged, 
torn  asunder,  broken  on  the  wheel,  or  burned.  Then 
goeth  the  wicked  wretch  to  his  Master's  capital  and 
court,  even  as  the  good  man  goeth  to  his.  But  the 
one  servant  lifteth  his  feet  in  haste  from  burning 

315 


THE  WITCH 

marl  and  findeth  no  cool  floor  to  set  them  on.  He 
swalloweth  smoke  and  flames  and  findeth  no  water 
in  all  hell.  His  flesh  blackeneth  to  a  crisp,  but  is 
never  burned  senseless.  A  million  years  pass,  and 
not  one  second  but  he  hath  felt  first  pain  and  terror. 
Eternity,  eternity!  and  never  will  his  anguish  lessen. 
He  looketh  about  him  and  seeth  those  for  whom  he 
had  affection  —  for  like  liketh  like  —  burning  with 
him,  and  about  their  feet,  creeping  and  wailing,  the 
unbaptized  babes.  He  looketh  up,  and  he  seeth 
across  the  gulf  the  other  King's  court,  and  the 
Happy  Servant.  And  the  Happy  Servant  looketh 
down  and  seeth  him,  and  his  own  bliss  waxeth  great. 
Wherefore  — " 

Wrath  Diverted  took  the  word.  "Nay!  You  err, 
Brother  Only  Truth,  in  using  the  word  'choice.' 
There  is  no  choice,  none !  —  that  is,  none  on  our 
part.  Attribute  no  merit  to  us  who  attain  Salva- 
tion! Attain  it,  do  I  say?  Nay,  we  attain  it  not, 
we  are  lifted  into  it.  Another  pays  my  debt ! " 

"Nay,  I  meant  it  in  that  wise,"  said  Only  Truth. 
"A  babe  in  the  faith  knoweth  that  all  are  rightly 
lost  and  damned.  Lost,  lost!  all  are  lost.  Five  thou- 
sand and  more  years  ago  it  happened !  One  day,  nay, 
one  hour,  one  minute  —  and  all  was  done  and  over ! 
Then  all  souls  sank  to  hell,  and  all  put  on  Satan's 
livery.  In  hell  are  folk  who  have  burned  and  howled 
five  thousand  years !  Lost,  lost,  all  are  lost !  But  the 
King,  because  of  the  Prince's  intercession,  holds  out 
his  sceptre  to  those  among  us  whom  he  chooses  out. 

316 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

But  we  have  no  goodness  or  merit  of  our  own !  Mis- 
erable sinners  are  we  all,  and  the  due  of  perdition!" 

"  Precisely  so,"  said  Wrath  Diverted.  "In 
Adam's  fall,  we  sinned  all.  Wherefore  they  in  hell, 
whether  they  be  pagan  or  heathen  or  ignorant  or 
babes,  have  no  reason  to  complain.  But  while  all 
are  guilty  there  be  some  who  have  added  rebellion  to 
rebellion,  and  sewed  the  web  of  disobedience  with 
the  needle  of  blasphemy !  They  be  those  who  refuse 
to  worship !  They  be  those  who  will  not  admire  the 
Plan  of  Salvation!" 

"Aye,"  said  Only  Truth.  "Apostates,  Sadducees, 
atheists,  miscreants,  infidels,  unbelievers,  witches, 
warlocks,  wizards,  magicians,  and  sorcerers! 
Damned  and  lost!  They  howl  in  the  hottest  caul- 
dron and  burn  in  a  furnace  seven  times  heated!" 

So  discoursing  they  came  insensibly  into  a  strip  of 
country,  green  and  pleasant  with  late  summer.  Be- 
fore them  was  a  hillside  with  a  parcel  of  children  at 
play,  a  dozen  or  more,  and  among  them  a  big  boy  or 
two.  These  now  gathered  into  a  knot  and  stared 
down  at  the  pedestrians.  "Four  —  coming  across 
Blackman's  Heath!" 

There  arose  a  buzzing  sound,  half  from  fright,  half 
from  a  sense  of  exciting  adventure.  One  bolder 
than  his  fellows  called  down.  "  Be  you  the  witches?  " 

"Witches!  —  witches—!" 

"They  be  all  men— " 

"Ho!  Satan  could  make  them  all  seem  men! 
They  pray  to  Satan  and  he  lets  them  turn  what  they 

317 


THE  WITCH 

will.   Bats  and  red  mice  and  ravens  and  horses  — " 

" So  he  could!  Witches!" 

"They  be  four,  and  they  come  running  over 
Blackman's  Heath  — " 

A  stone  leaped  down  the  hillside.  Another  fol- 
lowed, and  struck  Only  Truth,  who  grew  red  and 
angry  and  brandished  his  stick.  The  assailants 
shouted,  half  in  fear,  half  in  glee,  and  gave  somewhat 
back;  then  seeing  that  they  were  safe,  well  above  the 
assailed  and  with  the  open  hill  behind  them,  stopped 
and  threw  more  stones.  Only  Truth  would  have 
made  after  them,  up  the  hillside,  but  Aderhold 
checked  him.  "Do  not  fight  bees  and  children  — " 

They  were  presently  out  of  stoneshot.  But  the 
children  might  carry  news  and  set  others  on  their 
path.  "Those  escaped  are  four,"  said  Aderhold  to 
Wrath  Diverted,  "and  we  are  four.  It  will  not  be 
convenient  to  be  stopped  and  questioned  on  that 
ground." 

"I  believe  that  you  are  right,"  answered  Wrath 
Diverted.  "Moreover,  you  and  your  brother  are 
evidently  country-bred,  and  walk  more  swiftly  than 
is  comfortable  for  us  who  dwell  in  towns.  Let  us 
part,  therefore  in  amity.  I  see  yonder  a  road  which 
should  furnish  easier  walking  than  this  growth  and 
unevenness  beneath  our  feet." 

"Then,"  said  Aderhold,  "we,  being  as  you  say, 
country-bred,  will  keep  on  seaward  over  these  fields 
and  downs." 

An  hour  later  the  two  lay  in  a  pit  dug  long  since 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

for  some  purpose  and  now  half  filled  with  old  dead 
brush,  while  a  formidable  chase  went  by.  These 
were  mounted  men,  officers  of  the  law,  armed 
with  an  accurate  description,  among  them,  indeed,  a 
sheriff's  man  who  knew  the  escaped  by  sight.  They 
came  trampling  by ;  they  looked  down  into  the  pit  as 
they  passed,  and  thought  they  saw  true  bottom  and 
naught  there  but  a  litter  of  dead  leaves  and  twigs; 
they  checked  their  horses  not  many  yards  from  the 
opening  and  stood  conferring.  Their  voices  came 
down  in  an  indistinguishable  hoarse  murmur  like  the 
sea  against  the  strand.  They  shook  their  bridles  and 
rode  away.  .  .  .  The  two,  who  had  lain  half-stifled, 
covered  by  the  bed  of  brush,  stirred,  heaved  the 
stuff  away,  rose  gasping  to  their  knees.  Silence  and 
the  blue  sky.  They  crouched,  eye  above  the  rim  of 
the  pit,  until  sight  gave  reassurance,  then  climbed 
forth  and  brushed  from  each  other  dead  leaf  and 
ancient  dust. 

"That  was  like  a  grave,"  said  Joan. 

Aderhold  stood  gazing,  his  hand  above  his  eyes. 
"Far  off  yonder  —  that  is  ocean." 

"Where?" 

They  stood  in  silence.  About  them  was  sunny 
stillness ;  far  off  lay  the  sapphire  streak.  Tension  — 
action  —  the  mind  held  to  an  arduous  matter  in 
hand  —  in  the  moments  between,  exhaustion,  con- 
cern only  with  rest  —  so  had  passed  the  time  since 
they  had  crept  from  the  gaol  into  the  black  gaol 
alley.  Now  suddenly  there  came  a  sense  of  relaxa- 

319 


THE  WITCH 

tion,  then  of  poise,  then  of  time  before  them.  Years 
—  there  might  be  years.  .  .  .  Even  that  set  amount 
and  partition  dissolved  like  a  mist.  They  were 
going  to  be  together,  and  their  minds  placed  no 
term. 

They  were,  the  two  of  them,  sincere  and  powerful 
natures.  Now  they  ceased  to  look  at  the  ocean  which 
their  bodies  would  sail,  and  turned  and  met  each 
other's  eyes.  .  .  .  Another  division  melted  from  be- 
tween them.  He  had  been  to  her  a  learned  man,  of 
a  station  higher  than  her  own.  She  had  said  "Sir," 
and  "Master  Aderhold."  He  was  still,  through  cir- 
cumstance, more  learned  than  she,  with  a  wider 
range  of  knowledge  and  suffering,  with  a  subtler 
command  of  peace  and  mind's  joy.  But  she  had 
power  to  learn  and  to  suffer  and  to  weave  joy;  there 
was  no  natural  inequality.  The  other  inequality,  the 
unevenness  in  station,  now  melted  into  air.  Given 
substance  only  by  long  convention,  it  now  faded 
like  a  dream  and  left  a  man  and  woman  moulded  of 
one  stuff,  peers,  unity  in  twain. 

"The  ocean!"  said  Joan:  "to  sail  upon  the  ocean! 
What  things  happen  that  once  you  thought  were 
dreams!" 

"Aye,"  said  Aderhold.  "Long  to  the  height  — 
imagine  to  the  height  —  build  in  the  ether  ..." 

They  moved  toward  the  sea.  The  country  was  not 
populous.  Avoiding  as  they  did  all  beaten  ways, 
taking  cover  where  they  might  of  wood  or  hillside, 
they  seemed  to  have  come  into  a  realm  of  security. 

320 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

They  were  faint  with  hunger.  Before  them  rose  a 
solitary  cottage  bowered  in  trees.  After  weighing  it 
this  way  and  that,  they  went  forward  soft-footed, 
and  peered  from  behind  a  stout  hedge  of  thorn.  A 
blue  feather  curled  from  the  chimney,  the  door 
stood  open,  and  on  a  sunny  -space  of  grass  three 
young  women  were  spreading  linen  to  bleach.  They 
hummed  and  chattered  as  they  worked;  they  were 
rosy  and  comely,  and  looked  kind. 

Aderhold  spoke  with  his  hands  on  the  top  of  the 
gate.  "Maidens,  will  you  give  two  hungry  folk  a 
bite  and  a  sup?  We  can  pay  a  penny  for  it." 

The  three  looked  up  and  stood  in  doubt ;  then  one 
ran  to  the  cottage  door.  An  elderly  woman,  tall  and 
comely,  appeared,  hearkened  to  her  daughter,  then 
stepped  across  the  bit  of  green  to  the  gate.  "  Be  you 
vagrants  and  masterless  men?" 

"No,"  answered  Aderhold.  "We  are  honest  folk 
seeking  work,  which  we  look  to  find  in  the  port. 
We  are  not  far  from  it,  good  mistress?" 

"Less  than  three  miles  by  the  path,  the  lane,  and 
the  road,"  said  the  woman.  "You  can  see  the  roofs 
and  towers  and,  if  you  listen,  hear  the  church  bells." 

They  were,  indeed,  ringing,  a  faint,  silver  sound. 
Aderhold  listened;  then,  "We  are  very  hungry.  If 
we  might  buy  a  loaf  of  you  we  would  eat  it  as  we 
walked—" 

"Nay,  I'll  give  you  bread,"  said  the  woman.  "I 
or  mine  might  be  hungry,  too,  sometime  —  and 
what  odds  if  we  never  were!"  She  spoke  to  one  of 


THE  WITCH 

the  three  standing  amid  the  bleaching  linen.  "  Alice ! 
get  the  new-baked  loaf  — " 

Alice  turned  toward  the  cottage.  The  two  others 
came  nearer  to  the  gate.  The  church  bells  were  still 
ringing,  fine  and  far  and  faint.  They  seemed  to  bring 
something  to  the  woman's  mind.  ' '  They  say  they  've 
taken  the  Hawthorn  folk  who  ran  from  prison." 

"Where—" 

"Two  men  came  by  and  told  us.  A  miller  and  his 
men  and  dogs  took  them  last  night.  They  fought 
with  fire  and  Satan  was  seen  above  the  mill-wheel. 
But  they  took  them  all,  the  two  men  said,  and  gave 
them  to  the  nearest  constable,  and  so  now  the  coun- 
tryside can  rest."  She  stood  with  her  capable  air  of 
strength  and  good  nature,  looking  over  the  green 
earth  to  the  distant  town.  "There  must  be  witches 
because  God  wrote  the  Bible  and  it  cannot  be  mis- 
taken. Otherwise,  of  course,  there  are  a  lot  of  things 
...  I  used  to  know  Hawthorn  when  I  was  a  girl. 
And  Roger  Heron.  More  years  than  one  I  danced 
with  him  about  the  maypole  —  for  then  we  had 
maypoles." 

"  Roger  Heron ! "   It  was  Joan  who  spoke. 

"Aye.  I  was  thinking.  ...  He's  dead  of  the 
plague.  And  his  daughter's  Joan  Heron,  the  main 
witch.  Life's  a  strange  thing." 

Her  daughter  brought  the  loaf  of  bread  and  also  a 
pitcher  of  milk  and  two  earthenware  cups.  The 
other  girls  left  the  white,  strewn  linen  and  drew  near. 
The  cottage  was  a  lonely  one,  and  few  passed,  and 

322 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

by  nature  all  were  kind-hearted  and  social.  Alice 
gave  a  cup  to  each  of  the  wanderers,  and  then,  tilting 
the  pitcher,  filled  the  cups  with  milk.  Giles  and  John 
Allen  thanked  her  and,  hungry  and  thirsty  to  ex- 
haustion, drank  and  were  refreshed. 

But  Joan,  when  she  had  pufdown  the  cup,  moved 
nearer  to  the  mother  of  the  three.  "Did  you  ever 
see  —  the  witch?" 

The  woman,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  church 
bells,  turned  her  strong  and  kindly  face.  "Roger 
Heron  brought  her  here  once  when  she  was  a  child. 
There  was  no  ill  in  her  then  —  or  I  saw  it  not.  Roger 
Heron  should  not  have  had  an  evil  child.  There  was 
little  evil  in  him." 

The  middle  daughter  was  more  prim  of  counte- 
nance than  the  others.  She  now  put  on  a  shocked 
look.  "But,  mother!  That  is  to  deny  Original  Sin 
and  Universal  Guilt!" 

The  elder  woman  made  a  gesture  with  her  hand. 
It  had  in  it  a  slight  impatience.  "I  do  not  mean," 
she  said,  "that  we  have  n't  all  of  everything  in  us. 
But  Roger  Heron  was  a  good  man." 

"Ah!"  said  the  youngest  daughter,  "how  any  one 
can  be  a  witch  and  hurt  and  harm,  and  be  lost  for 
aye,  and  leave  a  vile  name  — ' ' 

"Aye,"  said  the  second;  "to  know  that  your 
name  was  Joan  Heron,  and  that  it  would  be  a  by- 
word for  a  hundred  years!" 

"  I  am  glad  that  Roger  Heron  died  of  the  plague 
and  waited  not  for  a  broken  heart,"  said  the  mother, 

323 


THE  WITCH 

and  took  the  pitcher  from  the  grass.  "How  far  have 
you  walked  to-day?" 

Aderhold  answered.  Presently,  the  loaf  of  bread  in 
hand,  he  said  that  they  must  go  on  if  they  would  reach 
the  port  before  night,  and  that  they  gave  warm 
thanks  for  kindness.  .  .  .  They  left  the  friendly  cot- 
tage with  the  sunny  spread  of  grass  and  the  bleach- 
ing linen  and  the  kindly  women.  A  dip  of  the  land, 
a  turn  of  the  path,  and  all  vanished  as  if  they  had 
sunk  into  earth.  Before  them,  fraying  the  horizon, 
they  saw  the  distant  town. 

Aderhold  spoke.  "You  were  there  when  you  were 
a  child.  Do  you  remember  it?" 

She  answered.  "I  remembered  at  last  —  not  at 
first:  not  plainly.  I  remember  the  sea." 

Her  voice  was  broken.  He  looked  and  saw  that 
she  was  weeping. 

He  had  not  seen  her  so  since  the  last  time  he  had 
come  to  Heron's  cottage,  and  she  had  wept  for  her 
father's  death.  There  had  been  no  weeping  in  prison, 
nor  in  that  Judgement  Hall,  nor  since.  He  knew  with- 
out telling  that  though  she  felt  grief,  she  controlled 
grief.  But  now,  startled  by  a  tide  she  had  not  looked 
for,  control  was  beaten  down.  All  about  them  was  a 
solitariness,  a  green  and  silent,  sunny  world.  She 
struggled  for  a  moment,  then  with  a  gesture  of  wild 
sorrow,  sank  upon  a  wayside  rise  of  earth  and  hid  her 
face.  "Weep  it  out,"  said  Aderhold  in  a  shaken 
voice;  "it  will  do  you  good." 

He  stood  near  her,  but  did  not  watch  her  or  touch 
324 


THE  FARTHER  ROAD 

her.  Instead  he  broke  the  loaf  of  bread  into  por- 
tions and  kept  a  lookout  north  and  south  and  east 
and  west.  No  human  being  came  into  range  of  vis- 
ion. The  slow  minutes  went  by,  then  came  Joan's 
voice,  broken  yet,  but  steadying  with  every  word. 
"All  that  is  over  now  —  I  '11  not  do  that  again." 

She  came  up  to  him  and  took  a  piece  of  the  bread. 
"Let  us  go  on.  We  can  eat  it  as  we  go." 

They  walked  on. 

"It  was  Gervaise  and  Lantern,"  said  Aderhold, 
"who  told  her  that  tale  of  a  capture  at  the  mill. 
They  are  ahead.  ...  I  have  seen  brave  men  and 
women,  but  I  have  seen  none  braver  than  you, 
Joan.  .  .  .  Life  is  very  great.  There  are  in  it  threads 
of  all  colours  and  every  tone  that  is,  and  if  happi- 
ness is  not  stable,  neither  is  misery.  You  are  brave 
—  be  brave  enough  to  be  happy ! ' ' 

The  sun  declined,  the  town  ahead  grew  larger 
against  a  soft  and  vivid  sky.  Now  they  could  see  the 
harbour  and  that  there  were  ships  at  anchor.  They 
now  met,  overtook,  or  were  passed  by  people.  Some 
spoke,  some  went  on  preoccupied,  but  none  stopped 
and  questioned  them.  They  entered  the  town  by  a 
travelled  way,  slipping  in  with  a  crowd  of  carts  and 
hucksters.  Within,  and  standing  for  a  moment  look- 
ing back,  they  saw  coming  with  dust  and  jingling  the 
party  that  had  passed  them  lying  in  the  pit. 

They  turned,  struck  into  a  narrow  way  that  led 
downward  to  the  sea,  and  came  upon  the  waterside 
in  the  red  sunset  light.  A  fishwife  crossed  their 

3*5 


THE  WITCH 

path.  "The  Moon  Tavern?  Yonder,  beyond  the 
nets."  They  came  to  it  in  the  dusk,  its  sign  a  great, 
full  moon  with  a  man,  a  dog,  and  a  thornbush  on 
the  golden  ground.  As  it  loomed  before  them,  Ger- 
vaise  stepped  from  the  shadow  of  a  heap  of  timber. 
11  Greeting,  Giles  and  John!  George  Dragon  and  I 
have  been  here  this  hour.  —  And  yonder  lies  the 
Silver  Queen." 


CHAPTER  XXV 

THE   SILVER  QUEEN 

THE  SILVER  QUEEN,  a  ship  neither  great  nor  small, 
high-pooped,  white-sailed,  her  figurehead  a  crowned 
woman,  her  name  good  for  seaworthiness,  ploughed 
the  green  water.  Her  sailors  and  the  adventurers  for 
new  lands  whom  she  carried  watched  their  own  is- 
land sink  from  view,  watched  the  European  coast, 
saw  it  also  fade,  saw  only  the  boundless,  restless 
main.  The  ship  drove  south,  for  the  Indies'  pass- 
age. 

Mariners  and  all,  she  carried  a  hundred  and 
sixty  souls.  Captain  Hugh  Bard  was  the  captain 
—  a  doughty  son  of  the  sea.  Her  sailors  were  fair 
average,  tough  of  body,  in  mind  some  brutal,  some 
weak,  some  good  and  true  men.  She  was  carrying 
colonists  and  adventurers  to  the  New  World,  acces- 
sions to  the  lately  established  settlement  at  James- 
town. Among  these  men  were  sober-minded  Eng- 
lishmen, reputable  and  not  ill-to-do,  men  who  had 
warred  or  traded  with  credit  in  various  parts  of  the 
world,  who  had  perhaps  joined  in  earlier  ventures  to 
American  shores.  These  carried  with  them  labour- 
ers, indentured  servants,  perhaps  a  penniless  kins- 
man or  two,  discontented  at  home.  The  mass  of 
those  upon  the  Silver  Queen  were  followers  and  in- 

327 


THE  WITCH 

dentured  men.  But  there  were  likewise  adventurers 
going  singly,  free  lances,  with  enough  or  just  enough 
to  pay  passage,  men  all  for  change  and  roving,  or 
dare-devil_men,  or  men  with  wild  fancies,  hopes, 
ambitions,  intents,  or  men  merely  leaving  worst 
things  for  a  conjectural  better.  Also  there  were  a 
few  who  thought  to  practise  their  professions  in  the 
new  settlement,  a  barber  and  perfumer,  a  musician, 
a  teacher,  a  lawyer,  and  a  divine.  It  was  an  average 
swarm  from  old  England,  in  the  early  years  of  colo- 
nization. 

Aboard  was  but  one  woman,  and  she  was  not 
known  as  a  woman.  She  was  called  John  Allen,  and 
went  as  the  still-mouthed  and  loneliness-loving 
brother  of  the  chirurgeon  Giles  Allen.  In  the  first 
days  the  latter  had  stated  to  a  group,  from  which 
John  Allen  had  risen  and  gone  away,  that  his  brother 
was  but  now  recovering  from  a  melancholy  brought 
about  by  the  death  of  one  whom  he  had  loved.  Now 
those  aboard  were  not  beasts,  but  men  with,  in  the 
main,  answering  hearts  to  lovers'  joys  and  woes. 
For  the  most  part  not  over-observant  or  critical,  and 
with  their  own  matters  much  in  mind,  they  took  the 
statement  as  it  was  given  them  and  allowed  to  John 
Allen  silence  and  solitude  —  such  silence  and  solitude 
as  were  obtainable.  Silence  and  solitude  were  all 
around  upon  the  great  sea,  but  the  ship  was  a  hive 
adrift. 

Captain  Hugh  Bard  was  under  obligations  to  Sir 
Richard.  Clients  of  Sir  Richard  —  nothing  known 

328 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

but  that  they  were  folk  whom  that  knight  was  will- 
ing to  help  from  England  —  were  sure  of  his  blunt 
good  offices.  Moreover,  the  ship's  doctor  fell  ill, 
whereupon  Giles  Allen  offered  his  services,  there 
being  much  sickness  among  the  colonists.  The  cap- 
tain nodded,  found  that  he  had  aboard  a  skilled 
physician,  and  took  a  liking  to  the  man  himself. 
Aderhold  asked  no  favours  for  himself,  and  none 
that  might  arouse  suspicion  for  her  who  passed  as 
his  brother.  But  yet,  with  a  refinement  of  skill,  he 
managed  to  obtain  for  her  what  she  wanted  in  that 
throng  of  men  —  a  little  space,  a  little  distance. 

She  never  added  difficulty  to  their  situation.  She 
was  no  fine  lady.  She  was  yeoman  born  and  bred, 
courageous  and  sane.  It  was  yet  the  evening  glow  of 
the  strong  Elizabethan  age.  Men  and  women  were 
more  frank  and  free  in  one  another's  company  than 
grew  to  be  the  case  in  a  later  period.  The  wife  or 
mistress,  sometimes  the  sister,  in  the  dress  of  page  or 
squire,  fellow  traveller,  attendant  at  court,  some- 
times fellow  soldier,  made  a  commonplace  of  the 
age's  stage-play  or  romantic  tale.  If  the  masquerade 
occurred  oftener  in  poem  or  play  than  in  fact,  yet 
in  the  last-named,  too,  it  occurred. 

Joan  had  native  wit.  Her  being,  simple-seeming, 
pushed  forward  complexes  enough  when  it  came  to 
the  touch.  Aderhold  marvelled  to  see  her  so  skilful 
and  wary,  and  still  so  quiet  with  it  all  that  she 
seemed  to  act  without  motion,  or  with  motion  too 
swift  for  perception.  She  went  unsuspected  of  all  — 

329 


THE  WITCH 

a  tall,  fair  youth  with  grey  eyes  and  a  manner  of 
reserve,  brooding  aside  over  some  loss  of  his  own. 

Giles  Allen,  John  Allen,  George  Dragon  —  it  was 
George  Dragon,  Aderhold  came  to  see,  who  fur- 
nished the  danger  point.  —  Humphrey  Lantern  was 
no  artist  to  put  forward  a  self  complete,  yet  not 
your  home  and  most  familiar  self.  He  had  no  con- 
siderable r61e  to  play ;  he  was  merely  George  Dragon, 
an  old  soldier  of  the  Dutch  Wars,  who  since  had 
knocked  about  as  best  he  might,  and  now  would  try 
his  fortune  in  Virginia.  He  was  at  liberty  to  talk  of 
the  good  wars  and  the  Low  Countries  all  he  wished. 
He  sought  the  forecastle  and  the  company  of  the 
ruder  sort  and  he  talked  of  these.  But  he  was  forget- 
ful, and  at  times  the  near  past  would  trip  up  the  far 
past.  Never  the  very  near  past,  but  Aderhold  had 
heard  him  let  slip  that  for  part  time  since  the  good 
wars,  he  had  served  as  a  gaoler  —  "head  man  in  a 
good  prison,"  he  put  it  with  a  grim  touch  of  pride. 
Aderhold  thought  that  some  one  had  given  him 
usquebaugh  to  drink.  When  he  cautioned  him,  as  he 
earnestly  did  at  the  first  chance,  Lantern  could  not 
remember  that  he  had  said  any  such  thing,  but, 
being  sober,  he  agreed  that  the  least  thing  might  be 
spark  to  gunpowder,  and  that  their  lives  depended 
upon  discretion.  He  promised  and  for  some  time 
Aderhold  observed  him  exercising  due  caution.  But 
the  fear  remained,  and  the  knowledge  that  Lantern 
would  drink  if  tempted,  and  drunken  knew  not  what 
he  said. 

330 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

At  first  they  had  a  favouring  wind  and  seas  not 
rough  or  over-smooth.  The  ship  bore  strongly  on, 
and  the  spirits  of  most  aboard  were  good.  Now  and 
then  broke  out  revelry  and  boisterousness,  but  the 
men  of  weight  kept  rule  among  their  followers,  and 
Captain  Hugh  Bard  would  have  order  where  he 
commanded.  The  wilder  sort,  of  whom  there  were 
enough  aboard,  must  content  themselves  with  sup- 
pressed quarrels,  secret  gaming,  a  murmur  of  fever- 
ish and  unstable  talk  and  conjecture.  There  were 
those  who,  wherever  they  were,  must  have  excite- 
ment to  feed  upon.  Their  daily  life  must  be  pep- 
pered with  a  liberal  hand,  heightened  to  a  fevered 
and  whirling  motion  with  no  line  of  advance.  These 
were  restless,  and  spread  their  restlessness  upon  the 
Silver  Queen.  But  there  was  much  stolidity  aboard, 
and  at  first  and  for  many  days  it  counteracted. 

The  wind  blew,  the  sails  filled,  they  drove  cheerily 
on.  They  came  to  the  Canaries,  on  the  old  passage, 
then  drove  westward.  Days  passed,  many  days. 
They  came  to  where  they  might  begin  to  look  for 
islands.  And  here  a  storm  took  them  and  carried 
them  out  of  their  reckoning,  and  here  their  luck  fell 
away  from  them.  The  storm  was  outlasted,  but 
after  it  there  befell  a  calm.  The  wind  failed,  sank 
away  until  there  was  not  a  breath.  Sullen  and  stub- 
born, the  calm  lasted,  weary  day  after  weary  day. 
The  sails  hung  lank,  the  water  made  not  even  a  small 
lipping  sound,  the  crowned  woman  at  the  prow  stood 
full  length  and  steady,  staring  at  a  glassy  floor. 


THE  WITCH 

The  sea  was  oil,  the  sky  brazen,  and  the  spirits 
flagged  like  the  flagging  sails.  Day  after  day,  day 
after  day.  .  . 

At  dawn  one  morning  Aderhold  and  Joan  leaned 
against  the  rail  and  looked  at  the  purple  sea.  It  lay 
like  a  vast  gem,  moveless  and  hard.  The  folk  upon 
the  ship  were  still  sleeping.  The  seamen  aloft  in  the 
rigging  or  moving  upon  the  decks  troubled  them  not, 
hardly  looked  their  way. 

"  If  you  held  a  feather  before  you,"  said  Joan,  "it 
would  not  move  a  hair's  breadth !  They  are  to  pray 
for  a  wind  to-day.  Master  Evans  will  pray  —  all 
aboard  will  pray.  Is  it  chained  somewhere,  or  idle 
or  asleep,  or  locked  in  a  chest,  and  will  we  turn  the 
key  that  way?" 

"Did  you  see  or  speak  to  George  Dragon  yester- 
day?" 

"No.  Why?" 

"Some  of  these  men  brought  aqua  vitos  or  usque- 
baugh aboard  with  them.  He  games  for  it  and  wins. 
And  then  his  tongue  wags  more  than  it  should." 

"I  did  not  know.  .  .  .  Danger,  again?" 

"Yes.  He  thinks  he  has  done  no  harm,  then  is 
alarmed,  penitent,  protests  that  he  will  not  —  and 
then  it's  all  done  again.  .  .  .  Poor  human  weakness!" 

"And  if—?" 

"We  will  not  look  at  that  now,"  said  Aderhold. 
"  It  would  unroll  itself  soon  enough.  —  Joan,  Joan! 
I  would  that  you  were  safe ! ' ' 

"  I  am  safe.    I  would  that  you  — " 
332 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

"I  will  match  your  'I  am  safe.'  I,  too,  am  safe. 
Nothing  here  can  quench  the  eternal,  flowing  life! 
But  until  we  have  lifted  this  level  and  built  more 
highly  we  shall  feel  its  pains  .  .  .  and  feel  them  for 
one  another.  And  now  I  ache  for  your  danger." 

The  east  was  carmine,  the  sea  from  purple  turned 
carmine  —  carmine  eastward  from  the  Silver  Queen 
to  the  horizon ;  elsewhere  a  burnished  play  of  greens 
and  blues,  a  vast  plain,  still,  still!  It  flowed  around 
and  away  to  the  burning  horizon,  and  not  a  sail  and 
not  a  breath,  and  no  sound  in  the  cordage  overhead. 
The  deepening  light  flowed  between  Joan  and  Ader- 
hold,  and  in  it,  suddenly,  the  body  of  each  was 
beautiful  in  the  other's  eyes.  .  .  .  The  sun  came  up,  a 
red-gold  ball.  Neither  man  nor  woman  had  spoken, 
and  now,  suddenly,  too,  with  the  full  dayspring,  the 
ship  was  astir,  men  were  upon  the  decks.  Gilbert 
Aderhold,  Joan  Heron  stepped  back  into  the  violet 
shadow;  here  were  Giles  and  John  Allen. 

Up  to  these  now  came  Master  Evans,  the  minister 
bound  for  Jamestown,  a  stout,  gentle-faced  man  in 
a  sad-coloured  suit.  "Fast  as  though  the  ship  were 
in  the  stocks ! "  he  said.  "But  if  the  Lord  is  gracious, 
we  will  pray  her  free!  Breakfast  done,  we  will  gather 
together  and  make  hearty  supplication."  He  looked 
across  to  the  sun,  mailed  now  in  diamond,  mounting 
blinding  and  fierce.  The  sweet  coolness  of  the  earlier 
hour  was  gone;  wave  on  wave  came  heat,  heat,  heat! 
Master  Evans  clasped  more  closely  the  Bible  in  his 
hand.  "Thou  sun  whom  for  Israel's  sake  the  Lord 

333 


THE  WITCH 

halted  in  thy  course  and  held  thee  nailed  fast  above 
Gibeon !  Dost  thou  think  if  He  chooses  now  to  veil 
thy  face  with  cloud  and  to  blow  thy  rays  aside,  thou 
canst  prevent?  And  thou  hot  and  moveless  air,  if 
He  choose  to  drive  thee  against  the  stern  of  this  ship 
and  into  the  hollow  of  these  sails,  wilt  thou  make 
objection?  Nay,  verily!  And  why  should  He  not 
choose?  Here  upon  this  ship  are  not  infidels  and 
heathen,  but  his  own  servants  and  sheep !  Wherefore 
we  will  kneel  and  beseech  Him,  and  perchance  a 
miracle  may  fall  like  manna." 

He  looked  smilingly  about  him,  then,  pressing  his 
Bible  closely,  went  on  to  other  emigrants.  .  .  .  Later 
in  the  morning  all  upon  the  Silver  Queen  were 
drawn  together  to  make  petition  for  a  prospering 
wind.  All  save  the  sick  were  there.  Giles  and  John 
Allen  stood  with  the  others,  knelt  with  the  others. 
"Have  we  not  a  chronicle  of  Thy  deeds,"  prayed 
Master  Evans.  "Didst  Thou  not  make  a  dry  road 
through  an  ocean  for  a  chosen  people?  Didst  Thou 
not,  at  the  Tower  of  Babel,  in  one  hour  shake  one 
language  into  all  the  tongues  that  are  heard  upon  the 
earth?  Didst  Thou  not  enable  Noah  to  bring  into 
the  Ark  in  pairs  all  the  beasts  of  this  whole  earth? 
Didst  Thou  not  turn  a  woman  into  a  pillar  of  salt, 
and  give  powers  of  speech  to  an  ass,  and  preserve 
three  men  unsinged  in  a  fiery  furnace?  Didst  Thou 
not  direct  the  dew  on  the  one  night  to  moisten  only 
the  fleece  of  Gideon  and  not  any  of  the  earth  besides, 
and  on  the  next  night  to  glisten  over  the  face  of  the 

334 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

earth,  but  to  leave  the  fleece  unmoistened?  And  are 
not  we  thy  servants  even  as  were  Gideon  and  Lot 
and  Noah?  .  .  ." 

The  calm  held.  A  sky  of  brass,  an  oily  sea,  heat 
and  heat,  and  now  more  sickness,  and  now  an  un- 
easy whisper  as  to  the  store  of  water!  The  whisper 
grew,  for  the  ship  lay  still,  day  after  day,  as  though 
she  had  never  moved  nor  ever  would  do  so.  Panic 
terror  came  and  hovered  near  the  Silver  Queen. 
Captain  Bard  fell  ill,  lay  in  fever  and  delirium.  .  .  . 
The  mate  took  command  —  no  second  Captain 
Bard,  but  a  frightened  man  himself.  There  was 
aboard  a  half-crazed  fellow  who  began  to  talk  of 
Ill-Luck.  "  The  ship  hath  Ill-Luck.  Who  brought  it 
aboard?  Seek  it  out  and  tie  it  to  the  mast  and  shoot 
it  with  your  arquebuse!  Then,  mayhap,  the  wind 
will  blow."  He  laughed  and  mouthed  of  Ill-Luck, 
until  crew  and  passengers  all  but  saw  a  shadowy 
figure.  Time  crawled  by,  and  the  calm  held  and  the 
panic  grew. 

There  came  an  hour  when  the  bolt  fell,  foreseen  by 
Aderhold.  Before  it  ran  a  whisper;  then  there  fell  a 
pause  and  an  ominous  quiet;  then  burst  the  voices, 
fast  and  thick.  It  was  afternoon,  the  sun  not  far 
from  the  horizon,  the  sea  red  glass.  Aderhold  came 
up  on  deck  from  the  captain's  cabin.  He  looked 
about  him  and  saw  a  crowd  drawn  together.  Out  of 
it  issued  a  loud  voice.  "Ill-Luck?  What  marvel 
there  is  ill-luck?"  Noise  mounted.  The  half-crazed 
fellow  suddenly  began  to  shrill  out,  "Ill-Luck!  111- 

335 


THE  WITCH 

Luck!  There  she  sits!"  He  burst  from  the  throng 
and  pointed  with  his  finger.  Away  from  the  stir,  on 
a  great  coil  of  rope  near  a  slung  boat,  there  sat, 
looking  out  to  sea,  John  Allen. 

The  mate,  with  him  several  of  the  more  authorita- 
tive adventurers  and  also  Master  Evans,  came  out 
of  the  state  cabin.  " What's  all  this?  What  has 
happened?" 

A  man  of  the  wilder  sort  aboard,  a  ruffler  and 
gamester,  was  pushed  forward  by  the  swarm.  "My 
masters,  there's  one  aboard  named  George  Dragon 
who,  being  somewhat  drunk,  hath  let  drop  news 
that  we  hold  hath  a  bearing  upon  this  ship's  poor 
fortune !  He  saith  that  we  carry  escaped  prisoners  — 
runaways  from  the  King's  justice  —  rebels,  too,  to 
religion  — " 

"111  Luck!  Ill  Luck!  There  sits  111  Luck!"  cried 
the  half -crazed  one,  and  pointed  again. 

The  swarm  began  to  speak  with  a  general  voice. 
"And  we  say  that  we  won't  get  a  wind,  but  will  lie 
here  until  water  is  gone  and  we  die  of  thirst  and  rot 
and  sink.  ...  If  we've  got  men  aboard  who  are 
bringing  misfortune  on  us.  ...  Twelve  days  lying 
here  and  not  a  breath!  The  captain  ill  and  twenty 
men  besides,  and  the  water  low.  .  .  .  There's  Scrip- 
ture for  it.  ...  What's  the  good  of  praying  for  a 
wind,  if  all  the  time  we're  harbouring  his  foes?  .  .  . 
Held  here,  as  though  we  were  nailed  to  the  sea  floor, 
and  the  water  low!  The  ship's  cursed.  .  .  .  We  want 
George  Dragon  made  to  tell  their  names  — " 

336 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

Suddenly  George  Dragon  himself  was  among  them 
—  red-faced  and  wry-mouthed,  but  to-day  thick- 
tongued  also  and  stumbling.  He  looked  about  him 
wildly.  "What's  all  this  chattering?  Talking  like 
monkeys !  —  Waked  me  up  —  but  I  won  and  he 
paid  —  good  stuff — "  He  saw  Aderhold  and 
lurched  toward  him.  When  he  was  near  he  spoke 
and  imagined  that  none  else  could  hear  him.  "  Don't 
look  so  grimly  upon  me,  Master  Aderhold! "  he  said. 
"  I've  dropped  not  a  word,  as  I  told  you  I  would  n't. 
'Zooks!  I  'm  not  one  to  peach  — " 

Aderhold!  With  one  sharp  sound  the  name  ran 
through  the  swarm.  "Not  Allen!  —  Aderhold.  .  .  ." 
There  were  those  here  from  that  port  town  and  the 
surrounding  country,  —  those  who  had  heard  that 
name  before.  A  man  cried  out,  "Aderhold!  That 
was  the  sorcerer  who  was  to  be  burned!"  Another: 
"They  escaped  —  The  sorcerer  and  apostate  and 
the  witch  Joan  Heron  — " 

11  111  Luck!  Ill  Luck!  "cried  the  Bedlamite.  "There 
she  stands!" 

John  Allen  had  risen  from  the  coil  of  rope  and 
stood  against  the  slung  boat.  The  throng  swung  its 
body  that  way,  hung  suspended  one  long  moment, 
open-mouthed,  wide-eyed,  then  with  a  roaring  cry 
flung  itself  across  the  space  between.  Aderhold 
reached  her  side,  but  the  throng  came,  too,  hurled 
him  down  and  laid  hands  upon  her.  One  clutched 
her  shirt  and  jerkin  and  tore  them  across.  She  stood 
a  woman  revealed. 

337 


THE  WITCH 

11  The  witch !  The  witch ! "  they  roared  and  struck 
her  to  the  deck. 

The  mate  was  not  the  man  that  was  the  captain, 
but  he  knew  what  the  captain  would  do,  and  where 
he  was  able  he  copied.  The  few  superior  colonists 
were  not  superior  to  witch-fear,  but  they  had  a  pref- 
erence for  orderly  judgement  and  execution.  Master 
Evans  was  of  a  timid  and  gentle  nature  and  ab- 
horred with  his  bodily  eyes  to  see  violence  done.  He 
believed  devoutly  that  in  the  interests  of  holiness 
witches,  infidels,  and  sorcerers  must  be  put  to  death, 
but  he  would  not  willingly  himself  behold  the  act 
which  his  religion  approved.  There  were  others 
aboard  amenable  to  discipline,  and  bold  enough  to 
escape  panic  over  mere  delay.  The  sorcerer  and  the 
witch  were  drawn  from  the  hands  of  the  more  en- 
raged. Their  arms  were  bound  across;  they  were 
thrust  into  the  ship's  dungeon.  With  them  went 
Humphrey  Lantern,  sober  enough  now  —  poor  wry- 
mouthed  man !  ...  In  the  state  cabin  there  was  held 
a  council.  "Keep  the  wretches  close  under  hatches 
until  Virginia  is  reached,"  said  the  cooler  sense. 
"Then  let  the  officers  of  the  settlement  hang  them, 
on  dry  land  and  after  solemn  judgement.  Or  let 
them  be  prisoned  in  Jamestown  until  a  ship  is  sailing 
home,  taken  back  to  England,  and  hanged  there.  If, 
as  may  well  be  the  case,  the  Silver  Queen  hath  been 
cursed  for  their  sakes,  surely  now  that  they  are 
ironed  there  below,  and  their  doom  certain  in  the 
end,  the  Almighty  will  lift  the  curse!  At  least,  wait 

338 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

and  see  if  the  calm  be  not  broken."  Within  the 
cabin  and  without  were  malcontents,  but  the  soberer 
counsel  prevailed.  The  mate  agreed  to  keep  the 
crew  from  mutiny,  the  moderate-minded  adventur- 
ers to  tame  the  wilder,  more  frightened  and  impa- 
tient spirits.  .  .  .  That  very  night  the  calm  vanished. 

The  calm  vanished  in  a  wild  uprush  of  clouds  and 
stir  of  the  elements.  The  heat  and  savour  of  brass, 
the  stillness  of  death,  the  amazing  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  splashed  red  of  sunrise  and  sunset  went  away. 
In  their  place  came  darkness  and  a  roaring  wind. 
At  first  they  went  under  much  canvas ;  it  was  a 
drunken  delight  to  feel  the  spray,  to  see  the  crowned 
woman  drink  the  foam,  to  hear  the  whistling  and  the 
creaking,  to  know  motion  again.  But  presently  they 
took  in  canvas.  .  .  .  Twenty- four  hours  after  the  first 
hot  puff  of  air,  they  were  being  pushed,  bare- 
masted,  as  by  a  giant's  hand  over  a  sea  that  ran  in 
mountains.  The  sky  was  black-purple,  torn  by 
lightnings,  the  rain  fell  with  a  hissing  fury,  the  wind 
howled  now,  howled  too  loudly! 

As  the  calm  would  not  break,  so  now  the  storm 
would  not  break.  It  roared  and  howled  and  the 
water  curved  and  broke  over  the  decks  of  the  Silver 
Queen.  A  mast  went,  the  ship  listed,  there  arose  a 
cry.  The  rain  and  lightning  and  thunder  ceased,  but 
never  the  wind  and  the  furious  sea  and  the  darkened 
sky.  The  Silver  Queen  was  beaten  from  wave  to 
wave,  now  smothered  in  the  hollow,  now  rising  diz- 
zily to  the  moving  summit.  The  waves  combed  over 

339 


THE  WITCH 

her,  they  struck  her  as  with  hammers,  her  seamen 
cried  out  that  there  was  sprung  a  leak,  it  came  to  be 
seen  that  she  might  not  live.  The  panic  of  the  calm 
gave  way  to  that  of  the  storm. 

And  now  they  cried  out  wildly  that  the  voyage 
was  cursed,  and  that  God  Almighty  who  had 
plagued  Israel  for  Achan's  sin  was  plaguing  them 
for  that  they  kept  aboard  most  vile  offenders  and 
rebels  such  as  these !  Those  that  were  still  for  delay 
kept  quarter  yet  a  little  longer,  but  while  the  wind 
somewhat  lessened,  the  leak  gained,  and  panic  at- 
tacked them  too.  The  captain  lay  ill  and  out  of  his 
head,  the  mate  was  no  stronger  than  they  who 
wished  clearance  made.  In  a  black  and  wild  morn- 
ing, the  livid  sky  dragging  toward  them,  the  sea  run- 
ning high,  they  lowered  a  boat  and  placed  in  it 
Aderhold  and  Joan  and  Humphrey  Lantern.  They 
might,  perhaps,  have  held  the  last  with  them,  car- 
rying him  in  irons  to  Virginia,  but  when  he  found 
what  was  toward  he  cursed  them  so  horribly  that  no 
wizard  could  have  thought  of  worse  imprecations. 
They  shivered  and  thrust  him  into  the  boat,  where 
he  knelt  and  continued  his  raving.  "Hush!"  said 
Aderhold.  "Let  us  die  quietly." 

The  sailors  loosed  the  small  boat  and  pushed  it 
outward  from  the  Silver  Queen.  It  fell  astern,  the 
black  water  widened  between.  The  ship,  mad  to  get 
on,  to  put  distance  between  her  and  the  curse,  flung 
out  what  sail  the  tempest  would  let  her  carry.  It 
made  but  a  slight  pinion,  but  yet  wing  enough  to 

340 


THE  SILVER  QUEEN 

take  her  from  that  speck  upon  the  ocean,  the  boat 
she  had  set  adrift.  .  .  .  Not  she  had  set  adrift,  but 
Ignorance,  Fear  and  Superstition,  their  compound, 
Cruelty,  and  their  blind  Praetorian,  Brute  Use  of 
Brute  Force.  There  had  been  one  pale  ray  of  some- 
thing else.  Master  Evans  had  insisted  that  there  be 
put  in  the  boat  a  small  cask  of  water  and  a  portion 
of  ship's  bread. 

The  Silver  Queen  hurried,  hurried  over  the  wild 
and  heaving  sea,  beneath  a  low  sky  as  grey  as  iron. 
The  many  gazing  still  lost  at  last  all  sight  of  the  open 
boat.  It  faded  into  the  moving  air,  or  it  was  drawn 
into  the  sea,  they  knew  not  which.  But  it  was  gone, 
and  they  made  bold  to  hope  that  now  God  would 
cease  to  plague  them. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THE   OPEN   BOAT 

THAT  day  and  night  they  in  the  open  boat  merely 
lived  to  die.  With  each  wave  of  a  sea  yet  in  storm 
Death  overhung  them,  the  foam  atop  gleaming 
down  like  a  white  skull.  The  boat  rode  that  wave, 
and  then  Death  rose  on  another.  There  seemed 
naught  to  do  in  life  but  to  meet  Death  —  a  little 
candle  left  to  go  forth  by.  Death  preoccupied  them 
—  it  was  so  wide  and  massive,  it  came  against  them 
in  such  tourney  shocks.  "Now  .  .  .  No! — Then 
now  ..."  But  still  the  boat  lived  and  the  candle 
burned.  When  the  dawn  broke  the  waves  were  seen 
to  be  lessening  in  might. 

That  day  the  sea  went  down  and  the  sky  cleared. 
Sea  and  sky  turned  a  marvel  of  blue,  Indian,  won- 
drous. There  was  a  wind,  steadily  and  quietly  blow- 
ing, but  it  served  them  not  who  had  no  sail.  All 
around  —  all  around  the  intense  sea  spread  to  the 
horizon,  and  no  sail  showed  and  no  land.  The  sun 
mounted  and  for  all  the  moving  air  they  felt  its 
heat  which  increased.  Heat  and  light  —  light  — 
light.  .  .  . 

The  cask  of  water.  .  .  .  They  found  beside  it  a 
small  drinking-cup  of  horn,  and  they  agreed  that  each 
should  drink  this  once  filled  each  day.  It  was  little, 

342 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

but  so  they  might  keep  Death  at  bay  so  many  days. 
They  also  portioned  out  the  ship's  bread.  Likewise 
they  watched  for  a  sail.  They  were  now  in  seas 
where  ships  might  be  looked  for;  west  and  south 
must  lie  the  islands  held  by  Spain.  Once  two  sea- 
birds  flew  past  them,  and  that  would  mean  that  land 
was  not  inconceivably  far  away.  But  they  saw  no 
land,  and  no  sail  was  etched  against  the  sapphire 
sky.  Loneliness  profound,  and  heat  and  light.  .  .  . 
All  was  done  that  could  be  done  to  preserve  life. 
It  remained  to  live  it.  ...  But  poor  Humphrey  Lan- 
tern, whom  the  other  two  tried  to  comfort,  would 
not  be  comforted.  He  sat  and  bit  his  nails,  full  of 
remorse  and  horror,  then  passed  through  stages  of 
anger  to  a  melancholy,  and  thence  to  a  dull  indiffer- 
ence, silence,  and  abstraction.  They  could  not  rouse 
him.  Aderhold  spoke  in  vain  of  the  Low  Countries 
and  the  wars,  and  of  all  the  good  that  they  owed  him, 
and  of  how  they  might  yet  live  to  remember  these 
days  not  unkindly.  Lantern,  huddled  in  the  bottom 
of  the  boat,  looked  at  them  blankly.  His  abused 
body  sank  more  quickly  than  did  theirs.  .  .  .  He  had 
a  knife,  and  at  last  one  night,  when  they  had  been 
drifting  long  days  and  nights,  he  struck  it  into  his 
heart.  The  body,  swaying  against  Aderhold,  roused 
him  from  uneasy  sleep.  His  exclamation  waked 
Joan;  she  put  out  her  hand  and  raised  it  wet  with 
blood.  A  moon  so  great  and  shining  lit  the  night 
that  they  could  see  well  enough  what  had  been  done. 
Lantern  was  dead.  They  laid  him  straight  in  the 

343 


THE  WITCH 

bottom  of  the  boat.  Aderhold  drew  out  and  washed 
the  knife,  and  then  they  sat  beside  the  dead  man 
until  the  moon  paled  in  the  vast  rose-flush  of  dawn. 
Then,  while  sea  and  sky  were  so  beauteous,  they 
lifted  the  body;  then,  while  they  looked  to  the 
brightening  east,  let  it  leave  their  hands  for  the 
great  deep.  Wind  and  current  bore  the  boat  slowly 
onward  and  away.  The  two  were  now  so  weak  that 
they  lay  still  as  after  great  and  prolonged  exertion. 

The  day  burned  to  its  height,  flamed  to  its  close. 
There  came  a  sunset  of  supernal  beauty,  and  then 
the  pitying,  brief  twilight  and  the  glory  of  the 
southern  night.  The  coolness  gave  a  little  strength. 
Aderhold  set  the  cup  to  the  mouth  of  the  cask  and 
poured  for  each  a  shallow  draught  of  water.  They 
should  not  have  drunk  till  morning,  for  their  store 
was  nearly  gone.  But  with  one  mind  they  took  this, 
to  give  them  voice,  to  free  them  for  a  little  from  gross 
pain.  When  it  was  done  they  turned  each  to  the 
other,  came  each  to  the  other's  arms. 

Another  dawn  —  the  furnace  of  the  day — sunset 
—  the  night.  The  wheel  went  round  and  they, 
bound  to  it,  came  again  to  dawn  and  then  to  strong 
light  and  heat.  When  they  had  drunk  this  morning, 
there  remained  of  the  water  but  one  cupful  more. 
They  lay,  hand  clasping  hand,  in  the  bottom  of  the 
boat  that  now  drifted  on  a  waveless  sea.  Sometimes 
they  murmured  to  each  other,  but  for  the  most  part 
they  lay  silent.  There  was  now  no  outward  beauty 
in  the  two.  They  lay  withered,  scorched,  fleshless, 

344 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

half -naked,  human  life  at  last  gasp  between  the 
ocean  and  the  sky.  Within,  all  strength  and  beauty 
could  summon  only  negatives.  They  did  not  com- 
plain, they  did  not  curse,  they  did  not  despair,  they 
did  not  hate.  Within  was  a  stillness  as  of  a  desert, 
with  a  low  wind  of  life  moving  over  it.  The  physical 
could  not  lift  far  into  emotion,  but  what  there  was 
was  love  and  pity.  Emotion  could  hardly  attain  to 
thought,  nor  thought  to  intuition,  but  what  there 
was  knew  still  the  splendour  and  terror  and  all 
things  that  we  are.  Day  —  eve  —  the  night  —  the 
dawn  —  day.  They  measured  out  the  last  water  in 
the  cask  and  shared  it  justly  between  them.  They 
lay  side  by  side,  his  hand  upon  her  breast,  her  hand 
upon  his.  The  fierce  heat,  the  fierce  sunlight  rose 
and  reigned.  .  .  . 

A  crazy,  undecked  sailboat  came  out  of  the  haze. 
It  was  returning  from  a  great  island  south  to  a  group 
of  small  islands  lying  northerly  in  these  seas,  and  it 
held  five  or  six  Indians  —  not  the  fiercer,  southern 
Caribs,  but  mild  Lucayans.  One  spied  a  dot  upon 
the  waters  and  pointed  it  out.  They  drew  slowly 
nearer  in  a  light  wind,  and  when  they  saw  that  it  was 
a  boat  adrift,  tacked  and  came  up  with  it.  A  man 
leaned  overboard,  seized  and  drew  it  in,  and  with  a 
rope  fastened  it  to  the  stern  of  the  larger  craft. 
Uttering  exclamations,  they  examined  their  prize. 
In  the  bottom  of  the  boat  lay  a  man  and  a  woman  in 
man's  dress.  They  lay  unconscious,  wreathed  in 
each  other's  arms,  two  parched  and  gaunt  creatures 

345 


THE  WITCH 

who  had  suffered  the  extremity  of  exposure,  hunger, 
and  thirst.  The  Indians  thought  that  they  were 
dead,  and,  indeed,  they  looked  like  death  and  terri- 
ble death.  But  when  they  were  lifted  and  dragged 
into  the  larger  boat,  and  when  water  was  put  be- 
tween their  blackened  and  shrivelled  lips,  there 
came  a  faint  stir  and  a  moaning  breath.  .  .  .  The 
Indians  had  good  store  of  water  in  cask  and  cala- 
bash; they  gave  it  again  from  time  to  time,  and 
they  crumbled  cassava  bread  and  fed  that  too.  .  .  . 
Joan  and  Aderhold  turned  back  to  the  land  of  the 
living. 

At  first  the  Indians  thought  that  they  were  Span- 
ish, for  they  had  no  association  with  other  white 
men.  Association  with  the  Spaniard  had  been  cruel 
enough  for  them ;  they  belonged  to  the  disappearing 
remnant  of  a  people  swept  by  the  thousands  from 
their  islands  to  the  larger  islands,  enslaved,  op- 
pressed, extirpated.  These  in  the  boat  were  run- 
aways from  a  hard  master,  who  had  stolen  this  boat 
and  put  out,  crazy  as  it  was,  on  what  might  seem  a 
hopeless  voyage.  Did  they  pass  through  days  and 
nights,  and  leagues  and  leagues  of  sea  and  go  uncap- 
tured  by  some  Spanish  craft,  did  they  come  at  last 
to  their  own  island,  what  would  they  find  there?  A 
desert,  with,  perhaps,  a  tiny  cluster  of  palm-thatched 
huts,  still  clinging,  looking  for  some  landing  party, 
looking  to  be  swept  away  as  had  been  their  kith  and 
kin  —  a  perishing  group,  dejection,  languor  of  life. 
.  .  .  But  homesickness  drove  them  on;  better  a 

346 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

death-bed  with  freedom  than  the  peopled  great 
island  where  they  were  slaves!  They  had  felt  the 
Spanish  lash  and  the  Spanish  irons;  they  looked 
doubtfully  enough  upon  the  white  man  and  woman, 
and  it  was  perhaps  a  question  whether  now  they 
would  not  pay  back.  .  .  .  But  when  at  last  Aderhold 
spoke,  it  was  in  English.  They  did  not  know  that 
tongue  and  they  answered  in  altered  and  distorted 
Spanish.  He  had  a  little  Spanish,  and  he  made  them 
understand  briefly  that  the  two  had  been  in  an  Eng- 
lish ship  and  that  there  had  been  a  storm  and  that 
they  were  castaways.  They  were  not  Spanish,  and 
they  did  not  know  the  great  island  or  any  of  the 
masters.  They  were  English,  whom  the  Spanish 
hated.  That  fact  being  weighed,  the  Indians  turned 
friendly,  laughed  and  stroked  their  hands  in  token 
of  amity,  then  set  apart  for  the  two  a  great  calabash 
of  water,  and  gave  them  more  cassava  bread. 

Joan  and  Aderhold  ate  and  drank.  The  will  to 
live  was  strong,  for  life  had  turned  a  rainbow,  and  a 
wild  and  beautiful  forest,  and  a  song  of  the  high  and 
the  deep,  and  an  intense  pulsation.  The  two  came 
swiftly  up  from  Death's  threshold.  Before  the  boat 
came  into  sight  of  land  the  light  was  back  in  their 
sunken  eyes  and  some  strength  in  their  frame.  .  .  . 
The  land  seemed  a  low,  island  shore.  The  excited 
Indians  gesticulated,  spoke  in  their  own  tongue. 
Aderhold,  questioning  them,  learned  that  it  was  the 
outermost  of  their  island  group,  but  not  their  own 
island  to  which  they  were  bound.  They  saw  pale 

347 


THE  WITCH 

sand  and  verdure  green  as  emerald ;  then  the  night 
came  and  covered  all  from  sight.  No  light  of  torch 
or  of  cooking- fire  pierced  the  darkness.  The  blank 
shores  slipped  past,  the  boat  left  them  astern,  and 
now  again  all  around  was  the  sea.  .  .  .  But  though  it 
was  night  there  was  no  sleeping.  The  returning 
exiles  were  excited,  restless,  garrulous.  The  two 
learned  that  there  were  many  islands  and  now 
almost  no  people.  The  people  —  the  Indians  beat 
their  breasts  —  were  gone  now,  almost  all  gone.  For 
the  masters  sent  men  from  the  great  islands  to  burn 
the  villages  and  take  the  men  and  women  and  chil- 
dren and  drive  them  aboard  ships  and  carry  them 
off  to  make  poor  slaves  of  them.  They  had  done  so 
when  the  oldest  men  were  children,  and  when  the 
oldest  men's  fathers  were  children.  But  now  the 
masters  did  not  come,  for  the  men  and  women  and 
children  were  all  gone  —  all  gone  but  a  few,  a  few. 
The  returned  from  long  slavery  did  not  know  if 
these  few  were  yet  there,  yet  clinging  to  their  island. 
Night  passed,  dawn  came,  the  wind  blew  them  on. 
Now  they  saw  islets  and  islands,  but  no  craft  upon 
the  water,  or  sign  of  life.  Then,  in  the  afternoon,  the 
Indians'  lode-star  lifted  upon  the  horizon.  They  put 
their  helm  for  it,  a  freshening  wind  filled  their  sail. 
Presently  they  saw  it  clear,  a  low  island,  here  ivory 
white  and  here  green  as  emerald.  The  Indians 
shouted  and  wept.  They  caressed  one  another  in 
their  own  tongue,  they  gesticulated,  they  held  out 
their  arms  to  the  nearing  shore. 

348 


THE  OPEN  BOAT 

The  shore  dilated.  Reefs  appeared  to  be  warily 
avoided,  and  the  water  grew  unearthly  blue  and 
clear.  Green  plumes  of  palm  seemed  to  wave  and 
beckon.  Back  from  the  narrow  ivory  beach,  inland 
out  of  a  break  in  the  belt  of  green,  rose  a  feather  of 
smoke.  The  Indians  when  they  saw  it  were  as  mad 
people.  They  leaped  to  their  feet,  they  embraced 
one  another,  they  laughed,  they  strained  their 
bodies  toward  the  land,  and  broke  into  a  savage 
chant  of  home-coming.  .  .  .  Now  they  were  in  a  tor- 
tuous channel  between  cays  and  the  island.  The 
island  beach  widened,  and  now  human  forms  ap- 
peared —  not  many,  and  at  first  with  a  hesitant  and 
fearful  air;  then,  as  they  became  assured  that  here 
was  only  one  small  sailboat,  with  a  bolder  advance, 
until  at  last  they  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  small 
bight  to  which  the  boat  was  heading.  They  were 
Indians  like  those  in  the  boat,  a  mild  and  placable 
strain,  dulled  and  weakened  by  the  century-old  huge 
wrong  done  them.  They  were  but  a  handful.  In  the 
whole  island  there  was  now  but  one  small  village. 

The  boat  glided  past  a  fanged  reef  and  came  into  a 
tiny  crystal  anchorage  where  the  bright  fish  played 
below  like  coloured  birds  in  the  air.  They  lowered 
sail ;  they  came  as  close  as  might  be  to  the  shelving 
land;  the  Indians  leaped  into  the  water  and  made 
ashore  with  loud  cries  and  incoherent  words.  The 
islanders  swept  about  them,  surrounded  them;  there 
rose  a  wild,  emotional  questioning  and  greeting, 
laughing  and  crying. 

349 


THE  WITCH 

The  infection  spread  to  Joan  and  Aderhold.  Be- 
hind them  lay  pain  and  horror,  and  pain  and  horror 
might  again  claim  them.  But  now  Time  had  spread 
for  them  a  mighty  reaction.  It  was  so  blessed  to  be 
alive !  —  they  were  so  prepared  to  embrace  and  love 
life  —  every  material  thing  seemed  so  transfused 
and  brightly  lit  from  within  —  they  laughed  them- 
selves and  felt  in  their  eyes  the  happy  dew.  .  .  . 
They,  too,  must  take  to  the  water  to  come  ashore. 
It  was  naught  to  them,  the  shallow  bright  flood. 
They  crossed  it  as  had  done  the  Indians,  and  stepped 
upon  the  land. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE   ISLAND 

A  FEW  miles  in  length,  fewer  in  breadth,  the  island 
lay  in  a  sub-tropic  clime.  During  its  winter  all  the 
air  was  neither  cold  nor  hot,  but  of  a  happy  in- 
between  and  suave  perfection.  Its  summer  brought 
strong  heat  and  at  times  wild  tempests  of  rain  and 
wind,  thunder  and  lightning.  For  the  most  part  the 
land  rose  but  a  little  way  above  the* sea,  a  shallow 
soil  with  a  coral  base.  Out  of  this  mould  sprang  a 
forest  of  eternal  greenness.  Once  there  had  been 
a  number  of  villages,  each  in  its  small  clearing,  but 
one  by  one  they  had  been  destroyed  and  the  clear- 
ings had  gone  back  to  the  forest. 

This  one  larger  village  had  outlasted.  Dwindling 
year  by  year,  before  it,  at  no  great  term,  death  and 
absorption,  when  all  the  island  would  be  desert,  it 
yet  showed  a  number  of  irregularly  placed,  circular 
huts  woven  of  branch  and  reed  and  thatched  with 
palm.  To  this  village  Joan  and  Aderhold  were 
swept  together  with  the  escaped  slaves,  the  returned 
exiles.  Besides  the  tenanted  huts  there  were  others 
from  which  the  last  of  the  occupants  had  died,  but 
which  were  not  yet  fallen  to  the  earth  and  become  a 
part  of  the  forest  floor.  Joan  and  Aderhold  were 
given  one  of  these  abodes  standing  under  tamarind 


THE  WITCH 

and  palm,  and  here  food  was  brought  them.  All  the 
village  was  in  commotion,  restless  and  excited,  for 
seldom  and  most  seldom  in  all  the  years  did  any  one 
come  back.  .  .  .  When  night  fell  there  ensued  feast- 
ing and  revelry,  a  strange  picture-dance,  performed 
by  men  and  women,  long  recitatives  wherein  some 
sonorous  voice  told  of  this  people's  woes,  of  their 
palmy  days,  and  how  the  white  men  came  in  the 
time  of  their  fathers,  and  they  took  them  for  gods 
and  they  proved  themselves  not  so  —  not  gods  but 
devils !  The  torrent  expression  of  wrongs  flowed  on. 
Sharp  cries  and  wailings  came  from  the  dusky 
figures  seated  in  an  ellipse  about  the  narrator.  Eyes 
looked  angrily  across  to  where  the  white  man  and 
woman  sat  and  watched. 

Among  the  Indians  of  the  sailboat  had  been  an  old 
man  with  a  finer,  more  intelligent  face  than  was  to 
be  found  among  his  fellows.  It  was  he,  principally, 
who  had  talked  with  the  castaways.  Now,  on  land,  he 
constituted  himself  their  advocate  and  protector. 
He  had  been,  it  seemed,  the  chief  man  of  a  vanished 
village,  and  this  present  village,  being  without  a 
strong  man,  looked  to  him  with  deference.  Now  he 
rose  and  spoke  and  the  threatening  looks  faded. 
These  Indians  were  not  of  a  fierce  and  cruel  temper 
—  and  the  two  strangers  were  not  Spanish,  but  came 
from  a  tribe  whom  the  Spanish  fought.  .  .  .  Danger 
to  the  two  from  their  hosts  or  captors  passed  away. 

The  night  went  by  in  noise  and  feasting.  With  the 
dawn  the  village  sank  into  sleep.  The  home-coming 

352 


THE  ISLAND 

ones  needed,  after  long  adventure  and  strain,  rest 
and  repose,  while  the  friends  and  kindred  at  home 
were  used  to  swift  and  calm  descendings  to  immobil- 
ity and  profound  sleep.  Within  and  without  the 
tent-like  huts  lay  the  dusky,  well-shaped  forms, 
almost  bare,  still  as  death,  lying  as  though  they  had 
been  shot  down  by  invisible  arrows.  The  projecting 
palm  thatch,  the  overhanging,  thick  foliage,  kept  out 
the  fierce  sun,  made  a  green  and  brown  gloom. 

Joan  and  Aderhold  slept,  too.  For  them  the  imme- 
diate need  was  health  again,  strength  again,  energy 
in  which  to  base  the  wonderful  flower  of  life.  They 
lay  like  children  near  each  other,  and  slept  the  live- 
long day.  When,  in  the  last  bright  light,  they 
waked,  there  was  cassava  bread,  and  tropic  fruit  and 
water  from  a  neighbouring  spring.  They  ate  and 
drank  and  talked  a  little,  about  indifferent  things  — • 
only  nothing  now  was  indifferent,  but  rich  and  signi- 
ficant. But  it  was  as  though  they  would  hold  away 
from  them  for  a  little  while  their  deeper  bliss ;  would 
not  speak  of  that  until  they  could  speak  in  health, 
with  glow  and  vigour  and  beauty  and  power! 
About  them  the  village  half  waked,  half  slept.  They 
heard  women's  and  children's  voices,  but  dreamily. 
The  woods,  that  had  been  very  still  during  the 
heat  of  the  day,  were  now  as  murmurous  as  rapids  of 
a  stream.  All  manner  of  winged  life  made  a  continu- 
ous sound.  Joan  and  Aderhold  rested  their  heads 
again  upon  the  woven  palm  mat  and  slept  the  deep 
night  through. 

353 


THE  WITCH 

With  the  second  morning  the  Indian  village  re- 
sumed its  normal  process  of  existing.  The  women 
practised  a  kind  of  embryonic  agriculture.  The  men 
hunted  not  at  all,  though  they  trapped  birds;  but 
they  fished,  pushing  out  into  the  turquoise  sea  in  ca- 
noes hollowed  from  tree-trunks.  The  women  plaited 
baskets,  and  cut  and  dried  gourds  large  and  small. 
They  had  cotton,  and  they  knew  how  to  weave  it 
into  the  scant  clothing  needed  in  such  a  clime. 
They  scraped  the  cassava  root  into  meal  and  made 
bread,  and  gathered  and  brought  in  the  staple  fruits. 
In  the  village  were  to  be  found  in  some  slight  num- 
ber and  variety  matters  not  of  savage  make.  Dur- 
ing the  more  than  a  hundred  years  since  the  great 
Genoese  and  his  Spanish  sailors  had  come  upon  this 
group,  such  things  had  drifted  here,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  tide  and  the  winds.  Thus  there  were  to  be  seen 
several  cutlasses  and  daggers,  together  with  a  rusted 
Andrea  Ferrara,  a  great  iron  pot,  and  smaller  uten- 
sils, a  sea-chest,  a  broken  compass,  a  Spanish  short 
mantle  and  hat  and  feather,  some  piece  of  furnishing 
from  a  church,  a  drinking-cup,  a  length  of  iron 
chain.  But  nothing  had  been  left,  or  had  been 
traded  for  with  Indians  of  other  villages,  for  a  long, 
long  time.  The  islands  were  desert  and  forgotten 
.  .  .  except  that  now  of  late  sea-robbers  and  pirates 
were,  for  that  very  reason,  taking  as  anchorage, 
refuges,  and  bases  of  operation,  the  intricate  chan- 
nels and  well-concealed  harbours.  But  no  pirate 
ship  had  found  as  yet  this  inward-lying  island.  It 

354 


THE  ISLAND 

rested  upon  the  sea  as  if  forgotten  or  lost  or  inacces- 
sible, and  its  fading  people  knew  at  least  a  still  and 
not  ungentle  autumn. 

The  old  Indian  came  this  morning  to  visit  Ader- 
hold  and  Joan.  Others  had  been  before  him ;  they  had 
held,  perforce,  a  kind  of  levee.  The  children  were  not 
more  curious,  nor  simpler  in  their  expression  of  curi- 
osity, than  were  the  men  and  women.  They  had  no 
language  in  common  with  the  castaways  but  that  of 
gesture,  but  they  made  this  answer.  The  torn,  sun- 
faded  clothing  of  the  two,  the  fineness  and  tint  of 
their  hair,  the  colour  of  their  skin,  Joan's  grey  eyes, 
the  absurd  sound  of  their  speech  at  which  the  Indi- 
ans laughed  heartily  —  every  physical  trait  was  of 
interest.  But  as  with  children  attention  went  little 
further  than  that  and  was  quick  to  flag.  The  levee 
dispersed. 

But  the  old  man's  interest  went  beyond  eyes  and 
hair  and  a  fair  skin.  He  could  speak  in  Spanish,  too, 
and  Aderhold  could  answer.  He  was  as  curious  as 
the  others,  but  his  curiosity  had  a  wider  mental  range. 
The  strangers'  country  and  its  nature  —  their  rank 
there  —  why  they  left  it  —  had  their  ship  utterly 
perished  in  the  hurricane  —  these  and  other  ques- 
tions he  asked,  with  his  fine,  old,  chieftain,  shrewd, 
not  unhumorous  face.  Aderhold  answered  with  as 
much  frankness  as  was  possible.  The  old  chief  lis- 
tened, nodded,  said  briefly  that  he  had  heard  men  in 
the  great  island  speak  of  those  other  white  men,  the 
English,  and  how  they  fought  like  devils.  "But 

355 


THE  WITCH 

devils'  devil  not  what  I  call  devil,"  said  the  chief. 
"Devils'  god  what  I  call  devil." 

He  wished  to  know  if  the  English  were  not  coming 
to  fight  the  Spanish,  and  his  eyes  lit  up.  ''Then  come 
rest  here.  Englishmen  would  n't  stamp  foot  upon  us 
—  eh?  "  He  observed  that  the  hut  was  old  and  fall- 
ing down.  "Not  good  place.  Too  much  tree  —  too 
much  other  houses  all  around.  I  like  place  see  the 
water  —  night  and  morning.  Sit  and  think,  think 
where  it  ends."  He  offered  to  have  them  a  house 
built.  "  Do  it  in  one  day.  When  you  like  it  you  look, 
say  where." 

Presently  he  gazed  at  them  thoughtfully,  and  held 
up  two  fingers.  "Sister  and  brother?" 

"No,  not  sister  and  brother.   We  are  lovers." 

"Ah,  ah!"  said  the  old  chief .  "I  thought  that, 
yonder  in  the  boat.  —  What  is  her  name  —  and  your 
name?" 

"Joan  — and  Gilbert." 

The  old  man  said  them  over,  twice  and  thrice, 
pleased  at  mastering  the  strange  sounds.  "Joan  — 
Gilbert.  Joan  —  Gilbert."  At  last  he  went  away, 
but  that  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  and  staunch 
friendship. 

The  day  passed,  the  night.  Another  day  dawned 
and  ran  onward  to  an  afternoon  marvellously  fair. 
The  season  of  hurricanes  and  great  heat  was  passing; 
the  air  was  growing  temperate,  life-giving.  This  day 
had  been  jewel-clear,  with  a  tonic,  blowing  wind, 
strong  and  warm.  The  narrow  shore-line  of  wave- 

356 


THE  ISLAND 

worn  rock  and  coralline  sand  lay  only  a  little  way 
from  the  village.  In  the  latter  occurred  a  continual, 
sleepy  oscillation  of  its  particles,  talk  and  encounter, 
and  privacy  had  not  been  invented.  Joan  and  Ader- 
hold,  fairly  as  strong  now  as  on  that  night  when  with 
Gervaise  and  Lantern  they  broke  prison,  went  this 
afternoon  down  to  the  sea. 

It  stretched  before  them,  the  great  matrix  from 
which  the  life  of  the  land  had  broken,  the  ancient 
habitat.  They  left  the  village  behind;  a  point  of 
woodland  came  between  them  and  it.  Now  there 
was  only  the  ocean,  the  narrow  shore,  the  lift  of 
palms  and  many  another  tropic  tree,  and  the  arch  of 
the  deep  blue  sky.  The  tide  was  coming  in.  They 
sat  upon  a  ledge  of  coral  rock  and  watched  it.  The 
water,  beyond  the  foam  of  the  breaking  rollers, 
seemed  of  an  intenser  hue  than  the  sky  itself  —  and 
calm,  calm  —  with  never  a  sail,  never  a  sail. 

1 '  We  may  live  here  and  die  here  —  an  old  man 
and  woman,"  said  Joan:  "die  together." 

"I  am  thirty- four  years  old,"  said  Aderhold.  "I 
will  have  to  die  before  you." 

"  No.   I  will  die  a  little  sooner  than  I  might." 

' l  No !   I  will  grow  younger  — ' ' 

" We  talk  nonsense,"  said  Joan.  "We  sit  here,  as 
young  and  as  old  each  as  the  other!  And  we  shall 
die  together." 

A  wave  broke  at  their  feet  with  a  hollow  sound.  It 
fell  on  her  last  word,  and  it  seemed  to  repeat  it  with  a 
sullen  depth,  Together.  It  came  to  both  that  they 

357 


THE  WITCH 

were  to  have  died  together,  there  in  England,  and 
that  if  ever  they  were  retaken,  as  the  great  strange- 
ness of  life  might  permit,  then  certainly  in  all  proba- 
bility they  would  die  together.  That  was  one  way  in 
which  the  granting  of  their  wish  might  be  taken  as 
assured.  .  .  .  But  they  saw  no  sail,  and  they  saw  that 
now  the  village  never  looked  for  a  sail.  .  .  .  Safety 
might,  indeed,  have  come  to  dwell  with  them.  The 
thought  of  omen  faded  out. 

The  wind  blew  around  them  warm  and  strong.  It 
was  full  tide,  and  about  them  foam  and  pearl,  and 
the  voice  of  mother  sea.  They  sat  with  clasped 
hands  on  their  coral  ledge.  It  was  coming  back  to 
them  —  it  had  come  back  to  them  —  health  and 
glow  and  colour  and  spring.  Joan  was  fairer  than 
she  had  been  in  Heron's  cottage.  First  youth,  youth 
of  the  senses,  youth  controlled  and  well-guided,  but 
youth,  revived  like  the  phcenix  in  Aderhold  the 
scholar.  He  had  seemed  graver  and  older  than  he 
truly  was.  In  him  strength,  activity,  adventure, 
interest,  will,  and  daring  had  early  risen  into  the 
realm  of  the  mind.  There  they  had  bourgeoned, 
pressed  on,  been  light  of  step  and  high  of  heart.  But 
the  outward  man  had  not  been  able  to  keep  pace. 
Now  a  deep  passion  changed  that.  He  looked  as 
young  as  Joan;  both  looked  immortal  youth.  Each 
put  hands  upon  the  other's  shoulders,  they  drew 
together,  they  kissed.  The  voice  of  the  ocean,  and  of 
the  wind  and  of  the  forest  spoke  for  them,  and  their 
own  hearts  spoke. 

358 


THE  ISLAND 

The  next  day,  when  the  old  chief  visited  them, 
they  went  back  to  his  proposal  of  a  new  house.  The 
idea  found  him  ready  as  a  child.  It  was  among  his 
traits  to  be  easily  fired  with  the  joy  of  building.  He 
would  speak  to  the  chief  men  and  the  young  men, 
and  they  would  tell  the  women  to  do  it  at  once. 
Where  would  Joan  and  Gilbert  —  he  produced  the 
names  with  pride  —  have  it  built? 

They  took  him  with  them  and  showed  him.  Just 
without  the  village,  so  near  that  they  could  hear  its 
murmur,  yet  so  far  that  there  was  not  oppression,  in 
a  rich  grove,  opening  to  a  bit  of  sandy  shore  and  a 
wide  view  of  the  azure  sea.  .  .  .  The  old  chief  gazed 
with  appreciation,  nodded,  "Good!  Go  talk  to  chief 
men  now."  So  much  a  man  of  his  word  was  he  that 
the  next  day  saw  the  women  bringing  bundles  of 
reeds  and  palm  leaves  for  the  thatching.  Also  young 
trees  were  cut  for  the  posts.  Aderhold  and  Joan 
studied  the  method,  saw  how  they  might  extend,  add 
a  shed-like  room  or  two,  make  a  gallery  for  working 
under  shade.  The  old  chief  and  the  others,  too,  from 
the  great  island,  had  ideas.  The  village  was  in  a  gay, 
a  stimulated  mood.  It  was  a  gala  month  —  not 
every  other  day,  nor  any  other  day,  did  captive 
tribesmen  come  back,  or  castaways  appear  that  were 
not  Spanish,  human  driftwood  making  human  inter- 
est! They  built  for  the  two  from  far  away  so  large 
and  good  a  house  that  they  themselves  marvelled  at 
it.  "Houses  like  that"  —  a  woman  said  to  Joan  — 
"in  houses  like  that  our  fathers  live,  eating  bread 

359 


THE  WITCH 

with  the  Great  Spirit! "  When  the  house  was  done, 
the  village  feasted,  and  an  Indian,  rising,  addressed 
the  castaways  and  said  that  now  they  were  members 
and  an  adopted  man  and  woman  of  the  tribe,  and 
that  the  village  expected  much  good  from  them. 
"  We  show  you  how  we  do  —  you  show  us  how  your 
people  do  — •  show  us  how  to  kill  Spaniards  when 
they  come!" 

The  next  day  Joan  and  Aderhold  took  possession 
of  their  house.  When  the  crowd  who  had  accom- 
panied them  to  it  was  gone,  and  when  the  old  chief 
was  gone,  and  when  there  came  the  evening  stir 
and  murmur  from  the  village,  the  two  built  their 
fire,  and  Joan  made  cakes  of  cassava  bread  and 
Aderhold  brought  water  from  a  little  spring  that  was 
their  own.  They  had  gold  and  russet  fruit,  and  they 
sat  and  ate  before  their  own  door  and  were  content. 
It  was  a  bright  and  lovely  evening,  with  a  light  upon 
the  sea  and  the  palm  fronds  slowly  swinging.  The 
voice  of  the  village  came  not  harshly,  but  with  a  cer- 
tain mellow  humming,  and  the  voice  of  the  sea  upon 
the  reef  came  not  harshly  either.  When  the  meal  was 
finished,  they  covered  the  embers  of  their  fire  so  that 
it  should  not  go  out,  then  rose  from  their  knees  and 
hand  in  hand  went  the  round  of  their  domain.  Here 
they  would  make  a  garden,  here  they  would  bring  the 
water  to  a  trough  nearer  the  hut.  Back  at  the  door- 
way they  looked  within  and  saw  their  house  fair  and 
clean,  yet  fragrant  of  the  green  wood,  with  store  of 
primitive  household  matters,  with  the  sleeping-mats 

360 


THE  ISLAND 

spread.  They  turned  and  saw  the  great  sea  and  the 
sky  wide  and  deep.  The  evening  wind,  too,  had 
arisen  and  caressed  them,  blowing  richly  and 
strongly.  A  tall  palm  tree  rose  from  clean  white 
sand.  They  sat  beneath  this  while  the  stars  came 
shining  forth,  and  that  of  which  they  spoke  was 
Love. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

FOUR  YEARS 

No  Spaniards  came  to  be  driven  back,  had  Aderhold 
been  that  magician  who  could  do  it.  It  was  like  a 
lost  island,  or  the  first  peopled  island,  or  the  last.  Day 
after  day  they  watched  a  tranquil  sea  and  saw  no 
point  of  any  sail.  Time  passed.  The  Indians  from 
the  great  island  ceased  to  dream  of  recapture.  Joan 
and  Aderhold  ceased  to  dream  of  being  taken, 
wrenched  apart;  ceased  to  dream  of  the  open  boat 
and  of  the  Silver  Queen  and  of  the  prison  and  the 
gallows  field.  They  did  not  cease  to  dream  of  Haw- 
thorn, of  Heron's  Cottage  and  the  Oak  Grange,  of 
Hawthorn  Forest,  and  all  the  life  that  lay  on  yonder 
side  the  prison  gates.  Joan  dreamed  of  her  father 
and  of  her  uncle  the  huntsman,  of  the  castle  and 
Mistress  Borrow  and  others  there,  the  town  as  once 
it  had  been  to  her,  and  of  Hawthorn  as  once  it  had 
been.  She  dreamed  of  Heron's  cottage  —  of  every 
item  there  —  the  well  under  the  fruit  trees,  the  bees 
under  the  thatch,  the  daffodils  and  every  later 
flower,  of  her  kitchen  and  the  hearth  and  the  old  set- 
tle, and  her  spinning-wheel.  She  dreamed  of  gath- 
ering faggots  in  Hawthorn  Forest.  She  dreamed  of 
Alison  and  of  Will  the  smith's  son  and  of  Good- 
man Cole  and  of  many  another  —  the  vintner  in  the 

362 


FOUR  YEARS 

town,  Cecily  Lukin  and  the  forester's  wife,  old 
Master  Hard  wick  —  many  another.  But  all  were 
blended  together  in  a  dream  world,  in  a  gay  and 
bright  picture-book,  where  if  there  were  witches  they 
were  harmless  good  souls  who  rather  helped  people 
than  otherwise,  and  where  no  one  was  persecuted  for 
thinking  things  out  for  one's  self.  In  the  picture 
book  it  seemed  almost  a  laudable  thing  to  do.  Ader- 
hold  dreamed  —  and  his  dream  world  was  wider  by 
his  greater  range  of  this  life's  experience.  He 
dreamed  of  Hawthorn  and  Hawthorn  Forest  and  all 
the  roads  thereabouts,  of  the  Oak  Grange  and  of 
Heron's  cottage;  but  he  dreamed  likewise  of  a  world 
beyond  Hawthorn.  He  dreamed  of  his  own  child- 
hood and  boyhood,  and  they,  too,  had  a  picture-book 
setting,  where  the  rough  became  only  rich  and  varied, 
and  what  had  seemed  sorrow  and  harm  turned  an 
unhurt  side.  He  dreamed  of  his  first  manhood,  and 
of  his  search  for  knowledge,  the  sacred  hunger  and 
thirst  and  the  lamp  of  aspiration  in  his  hand.  He 
dreamed  of  old  woes  and  scars,  happenings  many 
an  one,  persons  many  an  one.  .  .  .  But  neither  he  nor 
Joan  dreamed  any  more,  with  a  frightful  sense  of 
nearness,  with  a  cold  start  of  waking,  of  sudden, 
clutching  hands,  of  separation,  of  dark  and  deep 
gaols  where  neither  could  hear  the  other's  voice,  or  if 
the  other's  voice  was  heard,  indeed,  then  heard  in  a 
long  cry  of  anguish.  Fear  spread  its  dark  wings  and 
left  them,  and  took  with  it  intensity  of  watchfulness 
and  all  the  floating  motes  that  made  its  court. 

363 


THE  WITCH 

They  had  now  great  strength  and  health,  Joan's 
renewed,  Aderhold's  such  as  it  had  never  been. 
They  stood  erect  and  bright-eyed,  their  movements 
had  rhythm,  the  hand  went  with  precision  to  its 
task,  the  glance  fell  unerringly,  the  foot  bore  them 
lightly.  They  bent  to  life  with  a  smile,  frequently 
with  laughter.  If  life  was  always  a  mighty  riddle,  if 
at  times  it  seemed  a  vivid  disaster,  yet  indubitably 
there  were  stretches,  as  now,  when  it  became  a 
splendid  possession! 

" '  I  have  heard  talk  of  bold  Robin  Hood, 

And  of  brave  Little  John, 
Of  Friar  Tuck  and  Will  Scarlett, 
Locksley  and  Maid  Marian  — '  " 

sang  Joan.  She  wove  as  she  sang,  for  there  was 
cotton  for  weaving,  and  she  had  learned  of  the  In- 
dian women  and  greatly  bettered  their  instruction. 
She  saw  garments  for  them  both,  hanging  from 
the  pegs,  lying  upon  the  shelves  Aderhold  had  made. 
She  had  traded  her  skill  at  many  things  for  needles 
of  bone,  for  the  vegetable  dyes  that  the  women  used, 
for  various  matters  that  she  wanted.  She  was  of  all 
women  most  fit  for  such  a  return  to  a  younger  world. 
Sane  and  strong  and  skilled,  with  the  artist  arisen 
from  the  mere  workwoman,  she  turned  back  some 
thousand  years,  and  handled  savage  life  with  a  cre- 
ative hand.  On  all  sides  latent  power  came  forth.  A 
wise  trader,  she  gathered  what  she  needed;  a  good 
teacher,  she  imparted  knowledge  as  she  went,  with- 
out ostentation,  insensibly,  with  a  fine  unconscious- 

364 


FOUR  YEARS 

ness;  a  worker  of  the  best,  she  did  that  which  her 
hand  found  to  do  with  elan  and  precision  and  an 
assured  result  upon  which  to  base  further  results. 
She  lacked  not  for  leisure  either,  nor  for  a  whim- 
sical, sceptical  glance  upon  her  own  labours,  nor  for 
an  ability  to  let  it  all  slip  aside  while  she  sat  and 
brooded  upon  the  open  sea. 

As  for  Aderhold,  he  was  and  was  not  the  man  of 
the  Oak  Grange.  He  was  that  man  freed  where  he 
had  been  bound,  fed  where  he  had  been  starved. 

Their  domain  grew  in  fitness  and  beauty.  By  the 
time  the  perfect  winter  had  passed  into  the  languors 
of  spring,  and  spring  into  the  heats  and  rains  of  sum- 
mer, and  summer  again  into  cooler,  fairer  days,  they 
had  achieved  about  them  an  Arcadian  right  sim- 
plicity, as  far  from  meagreness  as  from  excess.  The 
large  hut,  palm-thatched,  stood  in  a  well-stocked 
garden.  Great  trees  gave  them  shade;  a  spring  of 
clear  water  for  ever  a  cooling,  trickling  sound. 
Around  all  they  planted  a  flowering  hedge.  Within 
this  round  sounded  the  hum  of  their  industries  and 
their  own  clear  voices.  Without  was  the  eternal 
voice  of  the  sea,  and  in  and  out  and  around,  the 
voice  of  the  moving  air. 

The  murmur  of  the  Indian  village  was  likewise 
there,  but  it  did  not  come  athwart;  it  travelled 
equably  with  the  other  sounds.  They  had  come  to 
have  a  fondness  for  the  dwindling  village,  an  affec- 
tion for  this  remnant  of  a  remnant  of  a  people. 
They  were  poor  savages,  they  had  flaws  and  vices, 

365 


THE  WITCH 

but  save  that  they  were  less  complex,  less  inter- 
twined with  later  offshoots,  more  plain  stalk  and 
plain  word,  their  flaws  and  vices  differed  in  no  great 
wise  from  those  that  might  be  viewed  in  France  or 
England.  At  times  the  village  seemed  like  a  village 
of  children,  and  then  again  it  might  seem  very  old 
and  somewhat  wise.  Once  or  twice  they  had  seen  it 
waver  toward  a  village  of  beasts,  heavily  swaying  to- 
ward the  animal  only.  But  Aderhold  had  seen  that 
happen  in  France  and  Italy — they  might  both  think 
that  they  had  seen  it  happen  in  England.  On  the 
very  morrow  it  was  something  more  than  animal. 
At  times  it  was  something  much  more  —  something 
much  higher.  And  they  knew  that  flaws  and  vices 
lurked  in  themselves  also  —  unplucked-out  weeds 
yet  living  a  slow  dark  life  in  the  backward-reaching 
abyss.  They  understood  the  village,  and  they  tried 
to  help.  They  did  help,  and  by  slow  degrees  the  vil- 
lage came  to  change  affection  with  them.  As  for  the 
old  chief,  every  other  day  he  came  to  see  them. 

He  was  of  an  enquiring  and  speculative  turn  of 
mind,  and  it  was  his  wont  to  bring  unsolved  ques- 
tions to  the  vine-shaded  strip  of  bare  earth  before 
the  hut,  and  there,  seated  on  a  mat  with  a  few  fol- 
lowers squatted  around,  propound  them  to  the  two. 
To  most  of  the  islanders  all  things,  outside  the  nar- 
rowest range,  were  supernatural.  The  old  man's 
scope  was  wider,  and  the  daring  of  his  scepticism, 
proportioned  to  his  environment,  would  have  quali- 
fied him  for  a  dungeon  in  most  countries  that  Ader- 

366 


FOUR  YEARS 

hold  knew.  .  .  .  Here  upon  this  island  all  was  as  a 
sketch,  a  faint  model  and  portent  only  of  what,  in 
seventeenth-century  Europe,  had  become  enlarged, 
filled  in  and  solid.  Generically  it  was  the  same;  it 
was  but  a  question  of  degree  of  intensity  and  of 
accretions.  These  Indians  also  held  for  an  external 
deity,  so  extruded,  so  external  that  steps  —  that 
intermediaries  —  must  be  extruded  to  cover  the 
extruded  space  between,  to  reach  the  extruded  Ear 
and  Mind.  Moreover,  they  did  not  maintain  this  a 
flowing  process,  but  continually  let  the  extrusions  of 
remote  ancestors  dam  the  stream.  They  had  idols 
whom  certainly  not  even  the  old  chief  might  with 
impunity  criticize.  They  had  "Thou  shalts"  and 
"Thou  shalt  nots"  which  were  wise  and  might  long 
remain  so,  and  those  which  had  been  wise  and  were 
now  meaningless,  colourless,  making  neither  for  much 
good  nor  much  harm,  and  those  which  might  once 
have  been  wise  but  were  now  hurtful,  and  those 
which  never  had  been  wise  and  grew  in  folly.  They 
had  notions,  dim,  not  as  yet  fearfully  positive,  of  a 
future  life  of  reward  or  punishment,  where  they  would 
do  without  limit  or  term  —  throughout  eternity, 
indeed  —  that  which,  Indians  upon  this  island,  they 
most  liked  to  do  in  this  present  moment,  or  would 
suffer,  alike  for  ever,  just  those  pains  which  at  pres- 
ent they  acutely  disliked.  They  placed  great  merit 
in  belief  without  question,  obedience  without  dis- 
crimination, and  a  prostrate  attitude.  They  had  ex- 
truded Authority.  Nothing  had  a  proper  motion  of 

367 


THE  WITCH 

its  own,  but  everything  was  moved  by  something 
else.  The  disclaimer  of  responsibility,  of  generic  lot 
and  part,  was  general.  The  disinclination  to  ex- 
amine premises  was  supreme.  They  had  found  their 
despot  in  Inertia. 

But  the  old  chief  was  exceptional.  He  was  wary 
and  paid  respect  to  taboos.  That  done,  he  loved  to 
talk.  He  brought  to  Aderhold  questions  such  as,  at 
the  dawn  of  philosophy,  an  intelligent  barbarian 
might  have  put  to  Thales  or  Anaximander.  Ader- 
hold answered  as  simply  and  well  as  he  might ;  where 
he  could  not  answer,  said  so.  Now  and  then  the 
more  active-minded  of  the  old  man's  escort  brought 
queries.  Joan  also  listened  and  questioned.  Ader- 
hold, answering,  taught  in  terms  of  natural  science 
and  a  general  ethic  —  very  simply,  for  that,  here, 
was  the  only  way.  .  .  . 

But  when  the  old  chief  and  his  followers  had 
gone  away  from  the  vine-clad  porch,  and  the  mur- 
mur of  the  village  came  faintly  across  the  evening, 
when,  their  day's  labour  done,  they  went  down  to 
the  sea,  to  the  coral  ledge  or  crescent  of  pale  sand, 
and  lay  there  by  the  blue,  unending  water;  or  when, 
night  having  fallen,  they  rested  in  the  moonlight  on 
the  black-and-white  chequered  ground  beneath  the 
palms,  they  spoke  more  fully,  shared  more  com- 
pletely the  inner  worlds.  Love  could  not  rest  with 
them  in  the  physical.  Freedom,  dilation,  redoub- 
ling, rapid  and  powerful  vibration,  energy,  colour, 
music,  all  mounted  from  the  denser  to  the  rarer  uni- 

368 


FOUR  YEARS 

verse.  Their  minds  interfused,  there  came  moments 
when  their  spirits  might  seem  one  iridescent  orb. 
They  were  one,  .  .  .  only  the  next  instant  to  be  ex- 
quisitely different  .  .  .  then  to  approach  and  blend 
again.  At  such  times  they  spoke  in  low  tones,  with 
slow,  rounded  words,  of  the  deepest  waters  where 
their  souls  drank  of  which  they  had  knowledge, 
or  they  spoke  not  at  all,  having  no  need  to.  ... 
At  other  times  they  talked  of  the  past  and  the  fu- 
ture and  the  whole  round  world.  Steadily  they 
learned  of  each  other:  Joan  much  from  Aderhold, 
Aderhold  much  from  Joan. 

They  had  lived  here  a  year  —  they  had  lived  here 
more  than  a  year.  When  they  had  lived  here  two 
years,  when  they,  no  more  than  the  Indians  about 
them,  watched  the  horizon  for  any  ship,  when  they 
had  ceased  to  dream  of  separation,  change,  and  dis- 
aster, when  it  was  fully  home,  with  the  sweetness 
and  fragrance  of  home  —  then  was  born  their  child. 

Joan  lay  upon  the  clean,  woven  mats  in  the  bright 
moonlight.  Aderhold  put  the  babe  in  her  arms,  then 
stretched  himself  beside  them.  Her  grey  eyes  opened 
upon  him.  "Gilbert  —  Gilbert  —  I  love  you  so  — " 

"I  love  you  so  — " 

She  took  his  hand  and  guided  it  with  hers  until  it 
rested  upon  the  child,  wrapped  in  cloth  which  she 
had  woven.  "Life  from  life  and  added  unto  life," 
she  said.  "Love  from  love  and  added  unto  love." 

The  child  was  a  woman  child,  and  they  named  her 
Hope.  She  grew  and  thrived  and  they  had  great  joy 

369 


THE  WITCH 

in  her.  When  the  old  chief  came  to  see  her,  he  held 
her  in  his  hands  and  gave  her  a  musical  name  of  his 
own.  They  translated  it,  Bird-with-Wide-Wings. 
Henceforward  now  they  called  her  by  this  Indian 
name  and  now  they  called  her  Hope.  The  old  chief 
grew  fond  of  her,  came  oftener  than  ever,  would  sit 
in  sun  or  shade  quite  still  and  content  beside  the 
cotton  hammock  in  which  she  swung.  The  days 
went  by,  the  weeks,  the  months,  and  she  continued 
to  thrive.  She  had  Joan's  grey  eyes,  but  save  for  this 
she  was  liker  Aderhold.  She  lay  regarding  them,  or 
laughed  when  they  came  toward  her,  or  put  out  a 
small  hand  to  touch  them;  she  was  happy  and  well, 
and  they  were  glad,  glad  that  she  was  on  earth. 

The  hot  season  came  and  the  rains,  and  in  August 
heavy  storms.  Trees  were  levelled  and  the  frail  huts 
of  the  village  suffered.  The  sea  came  high  upon  the 
land  and  the  rain  fell  in  sheets.  In  the  dim  hut  with 
the  door  fast  closed,  Aderhold  and  Joan  and  the 
babe  rested  in  security.  The  babe  slept ;  the  two  lay 
and  listened  to  the  fury  without. 

11  There  comes  into  my  mind,"  said  Joan,  "the 
black  sky  and  the  dead  air  and  the  lightning  and 
thunder  that  Sunday  in  Hawthorn  Church." 

"It  came  to  me  then,  too,"  answered  Aderhold. 
"Some  finger  in  this  storm  strikes  the  key." 

There  was  a  silence.  Both  saw  Hawthorn  Church 
again  and  the  congregation,  and  Master  Clement  in 
the  pulpit.  Both  felt  again  the  darkness  of  that 
storm,  the  oppression  and  the  sense  of  catastrophe. 

370 


FOUR  YEARS 

In  mind  again  each,  the  remembered  bolt  having 
fallen,  left  the  church  and  took  the  homeward  road. 
Joan  hurried  once  more  over  the  sighing  grass,  past 
the  swaying  trees,  saw  Heron's  cottage  and  the 
breaking  storm.  Aderhold  passed  again  through 
Hawthorn  Forest  and  crossed  the  stream  before  the 
Oak  Grange,  reached  again  the  fairy  oak  and  the 
Grange.  He  was  again  in  Dorothy's  kitchen,  stoop- 
ing over  the  fire — in  his  old  room  with  his  unfinished 
book  beneath  his  hand  —  upon  the  stairs  —  the 
door  was  opening  —  the  men  to  take  him.  .  .  .  The 
blast  without  the  hut  changed  key.  The  babe  woke, 
and  Joan,  lifting  her,  moved  to  and  fro.  JVhen  she 
was  hushed  and  sleeping,  the  strong  echo,  the  re- 
turned emotion  had  disappeared.  They  kept  silence 
for  a  little,  and  then  they  talked,  not  of  old  things 
but  of  the  island,  of  their  trees  and  garden  and  harm 
from  the  hurricane  that  must  be  repaired,  and  then 
of  the  village  and  the  children  of  the  village.  They 
were  beginning  now  to  teach  these. 

The  storm  passed  and  other  storms.  There  came 
around  again  the  days  of  balm,  the  perfect  weather. 
The  child  Hope  was  a  year  old.  Their  joy  in  her  was 
great,  indeed.  For  themselves,  they  were  husband 
and  wife,  lovers,  friends,  fellow  scholars,  fellow  work- 
ers, playmates.  Their  friendship  with  the  Indians  was 
stronger  by  a  year,  their  service  stronger.  The  old 
chief  came  often  and  often,  and  the  child  crowed  and 
laughed  and  clapped  her  hands  to  see  him. 

The  balmy  days,  the  perfect  weather  passed,  and 
371 


THE  WITCH 

the  spring  passed.  Summer  again  with  its  heats  and 
rains  was  here.  With  the  first  great  storm,  in  the  hut 
with  the  door  fast  closed,  shutting  out  the  swaying 
and  the  wind  and  the  hot,  rain-filled  air,  Joan,  play- 
ing with  the  little  Hope,  keeping  her  from  being  ter- 
rified by  the  darkness  and  the  rush  of  sound,  sud- 
denly fell  quite  still  where  she  knelt.  She  turned  her 
head;  her  attitude  became  that  of  one  who  was 
tensely  and  painfully  listening. 

When  she  spoke  it  was  with  a  strange  voice. 
11  Does  it  come  again  to  you  as  it  did  last  year?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Aderhold;  "it  comes  by  force  of  asso- 
ciation. Dismiss  it  from  your  mind." 

"It  comes  as  close  as  though  it  were  going  to  be 
real  again." 

"It  is  the  darkness  and  oppression  and  the  feel- 
ing of  being  pent.  It  will  pass.  —  Look  at  the  Bird- 
with- Wide- Wings !  She  is  laughing  at  us." 

The  hurricane  raved  itself  to  a  close;  the  light 
came  and  the  blue  sky,  the  sun  shone  out.  There  fol- 
lowed a  week  of  this ;  then,  one  morning  at  sunrise, 
Joan,  coming  out  of  the  hut  into  the  space  beneath 
the  trees,  looked  seaward  and  uttered  a  cry.  "Gil- 
bert—Gilbert!" 

Aderhold  came  to  her  side.   "What  is  it?" 

Her  arm  was  raised  and  extended,  the  hand  point- 
ing. A  ship  stood  off  the  island. 

All  that  day  it  was  there;  it  hovered,  as  it  were, 
it  reconnoitred.  It  sent  out  no  boats,  but  there  was 
something  that  said  that  it  had  seen  the  village. 

372 


FOUR  YEARS 

It  came  near  enough,  and  the  clearing  would  be 
visible  from  the  rigging.  The  Indians'  canoes,  more- 
over, were  there  upon  the  beach.  ...  It  was  a  ship 
with  dingy  sails,  with  a  bravo  air,  yet  furtive,  too. 
Once  it  clapped  on  sail  and  dwindled  to  a  flake,  and 
those  who  watched  from  out  a  screening  belt  of  wood 
thought  that  it  was  gone.  But  it  seemed  that  it 
meant  only  to  sail  around  the  island,  for  presently 
the  outlook  in  the  tallest  tree  saw  its  shape,  having 
doubled  a  long  point,  enlarge  again  across  this  green 
and  silver  spit.  When  the  second  morning  dawned, 
there  it  was  again,  dusky,  ill-omened,  riding  the  deep 
water  beyond  the  reef  that  somewhat  guarded  the 
shore.  .  .  .  Then  the  air  thickened,  and  there  threat- 
ened a  hurricane.  The  ship  turned  and  scudded 
away.  While  the  sky  darkened,  she  vanished,  sink 
ing  beneath  the  horizon  to  the  south. 

The  storm  broke,  reigned  and  passed.  When  it 
was  over,  when,  save  for  the  myriad  small  wreckage 
and  the  whitened  and  high-running  sea,  there  was 
calm  again,  then  fell  talk  and  discussion  enough  as 
to  that  ship,  foreboding  enough,  excitement  enough 
in  the  village.  The  Indians  made  new  spears  or  tried 
trusted  old  ones,  sharpening  afresh  every  point. 
They  had  bows  and  arrows,  though  they  put  more 
dependence  in  their  spears,  and  in  short  hatchets, 
headed  with  bits  of  sharpened  rock.  Whatever 
weapons  there  were  were  got  in  order.  That  done,  all 
that  they  could  do  was  done.  Their  not  unhealthful 
clime,  their  search  for  food,  their  fishing,  swimming, 

373 


THE  WITCH 

their  games  and  ceremonial  dances  kept  their  bodies, 
slight  and  not  greatly  muscular  though  they  were, 
yet  in  a  condition  of  some  strength  and  readiness. 
Now  they  had  only  to  wait.  .  .  .  They  waited,  but  no 
ship  came  back,  nor  other  ships  appeared. 

The  bad  season  passed,  the  good  days  came 
around  again,  and  still  no  fleck  of  a  sail  showed  on 
all  the  round  of  the  blue  ocean.  The  Indians  ceased 
to  glance  up  continually  from  whatever  employment 
they  were  about.  Now  they  looked  not  once  a  day, 
now  they  ceased  all  active  expectation,  now  the 
matter  grew  dim,  remote,  now  it  faded  almost  from 
mind.  The  old  chief,  perhaps,  still  looked  seaward, 
but  the  village  at  large  had  short  memories  when 
immediate  anxieties  were  lifted.  Life  took  up  again 
the  old,  smooth  measure. 

But  Aderhold  and  Joan  could  not  forget.  Subtly 
they  felt  that  the  current  was  wearing  another  chan- 
nel. There  were  cloud  shapes  below  the  horizon. 
They  were  happy.  Their  joy  in  each  other  and  in  the 
child  was,  if  that  could  be,  deeper  —  the  very  shape 
of  fear  gave  an  intensity,  a  lambent  rose  and  purple, 
a  richer  music  —  made  it  deeper.  Their  service  to 
the  folk  among  whom  they  had  fallen  was  no  less. 
.  .  .  But  they  felt  a  threat  and  a  haunting  and  a 
movement  of  life  from  one  house  to  another. 

At  last,  on  a  calm  and  glorious  morning,  they  saw 
the  ship  again  —  that  ship  and  another.  The  two 
lowered  sail,  down  rattled  the  anchors;  they  swung 
at  ease  in  the  still  water  beyond  the  fringing  reef. 

374 


FOUR  YEARS 

Their  flags  were  Spanish;  they  sent  a  shot  from  a 
culverin  shrieking  across  to  the  land.  It  sheared  the 
top  of  a  palm  tree ;  the  green  panache  came  tumbling 
to  the  ground.  Birds  rose  with  clamour  and  fled 
away;  the  shot  echoed  from  a  low  hill  back  in  the 
island.  Forth  from  the  ships'  sides  put  boats  —  boat 
after  boat  until  there  were  a  number  —  and  all  filled 
with  armed  men. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

THE   SPANIARDS 

THE  slave-seekers,  one  hundred  and  fifty  armed 
men,  struck  a  flag  into  the  earth  before  the  village 
and  demanded  a  parley.  Their  leader  or  captain  was 
a  tall,  black-bearded  person,  fierce  and  fell  of  voice 
and  aspect.  He  came  to  the  front  and  shouted  to  the 
Indians  in  a  mixture  of  Spanish  and  Indian  words. 
Also  he  made  friendly-seeming  gestures.  "No  harm 
meant  —  no  harm  meant !  Friends  —  friends !  Your 
kindred  send  you  messages  —  from  a  happy  country 
—  much  happier  than  here  where  you  live !  Let  us 
come  into  your  village  and  talk.  —  We  have  beads 
and  scarlet  cloth  — " 

But  the  village  kept  silence.  At  Aderhold's  insti- 
gation, immediately  after  the  ship's  first  visit,  it  had 
digged  around  itself  a  shallow  ditch  and  planted  in 
part  a  stockade  of  sharpened  stakes,  in  part  a  tall 
and  thorny  hedge.  Within  this  manner  of  wall  were 
gathered  some  four  hundred  souls,  counting  men, 
women,  and  children.  Besides  the  infants  and  the 
small  boys  and  girls  there  were  the  old  and  infirm 
and  the  sick.  All  were  naked  of  other  defence  than 
this  one  barrier  and  the  frail,  booth-like  walls  of 
their  huts.  They  were  armed  only  with  primitive 

376 


THE  SPANIARDS 

weapons.  The  word  "Spaniard"  meant  to  them 
ogre  and  giant. 

If  they  were  not  truly  ogres  and  giants,  the  slave- 
seekers  were  yet  active,  hardened,  picked  men, 
trained  in  cruelty,  practised  in  wiles,  fired  with  lust 
of  the  golden  price.  When  the  village  held  silent, 
the  leader  tried  again  with  blandishments;  when 
there  came  no  answer  but  the  hot  sunshine  and  the 
murmur  of  wood  and  sea,  the  company  lifted  its 
flag  and  advanced  with  deliberation.  From  behind 
the  wall  came  a  flight  of  spears  and  arrows.  A  Span- 
iard staggered  and  fell.  Some  savage  arm,  more  sin- 
ewy than  most,  had  sent  a  spear  full  through  his 
neck.  There  arose  a  roar  of  anger.  The  men  from 
the  ships,  the  black-bearded  one  at  their  head, 
rushed  forward,  came  tilt  against  the  stockade  and 
the  thorn  hedge.  .  .  .  They  had  not  believed  in  the 
stoutness  of  any  defence,  nor  of  these  Indians'  hearts. 
But  driven  back,  they  must  believe.  Carrying  with 
them  their  wounded,  they  withdrew  halfway  to  the 
sea  and  held  council. 

In  the  village  they  mended  the  gaps  in  the  wall  of 
stakes  and  thorny  growth,  and  that  done,  watched 
and  waited.  The  sun  rode  high,  the  children  went 
to  sleep.  .  .  .  The  old  chief  —  the  fighting  men,  the 
women  gathered  around  him — talked  with  high, 
ironic  passion  of  days  gone  by  in  this  island,  in  this 
island  group.  "They  came,  and  our  fathers'  fathers 
thought  they  were  gods  or  men  like  gods!  They 
had  their  wooden  cross,  and  they  planted  it  in  the 

377 


THE  WITCH 

sand,  side  by  side  with  their  flag  that  says  'Slay!' 
They  said  that  both  were  pleasing  to  the  Great 
Spirit,  and  that  they  were  his  favoured  children. 
They  went  away  and  our  fathers'  fathers  thought 
of  them  as  gods  and  their  country  as  the  house  of 
the  Great  Spirit.  .  .  .  They  who  had  been  children 
when  they  came  grew  to  be  men.  There  were  men 
and  men,  then,  in  this  land,  men  and  men!  Then 
the  Spaniards  came  again.  They  told  our  fathers 
that  they  came  from  heavenly  shores.  They  said 
that  there,  would  our  fathers  only  go  with  them  in 
their  many  ships,  they  would  find  their  dead  again ! 
Find  them  living  and  bright  and  always  young. 
Find  them  they  loved.  Find  their  forefathers  whom 
the  Great  Spirit  loved  and  kept  always  about  him. 
Find  all  they  dreamed  about.  Find  happiness.  .  .  . 
They  were  weak  of  mind  and  they  believed!  They 
went  into  the  Spaniards'  ships  —  hundreds  and 
hundreds  and  hundreds.  Next  year  the  Spaniards 
came  again  and  they  brought  what  they  said  were 
messages  from  the  red  men  who  had  gone  last  year 
to  the  heavenly  shores.  It  was  truly  where  the  Great 
Spirit  dwelt  and  where  the  dead  lived  again  and  all 
the  red  men  who  could  should  come.  .  .  .  And  they 
whose  islands  these  were  were  weak  in  judgment  and 
listened  and  believed  and  went.  The  Spaniards  car- 
ried them  away  in  their  ships  —  men  and  men  and 
men  and  women  and  children.  They  loaded  their 
ships  with  them  as  though  they  were  nuts  or  fruit 
or  fish  they  had  caught,  or  the  gold  that  they  are 

378 


THE  SPANIARDS 

always  seeking.  They  carried  them  away,  and  next 
year  they  came  for  more.  They  took  these  too.  And 
now  this  country  was  growing  as  it  is  to-day  —  trees 
where  once  there  were  people.  But  at  last  one  es- 
caped from  the  'heavenly  shores,'  and  after  long 
toil  and  suffering  reached  these  islands  and  told 
the  truth.  So  at  last  when  the  Spaniards  came  the 
people  fought  them.  But  they  were  strong  and  the 
people  were  weak.  And  more  and  more  trees  grew 
where  once  there  had  been  men!  Now"  —  said  the 
old  chief  — "I  will  tell  you  about  those  heavenly 
shores,  for  I,  too,  have  been  there.  I  will  tell  you  of 
what  we  from  this  country  do  there,  and  what  is 
done  to  us."  He  told,  circumstantially,  a  tale  of 
fearful  suffering. 

Many  of  the  Indians,  men  and  women  alike,  de- 
termined to  die  rather  than  be  taken.  But  many, 
and  perhaps  the  most,  were  neither  strong  nor  stoic, 
and  there  was  a  doubt,  Aderhold  and  Joan  felt,  and 
the  old  chief  felt.  .  .  .  Neither  that  day  nor  that 
night  did  there  befall  another  attack.  The  Span- 
iards camped  upon  the  shore,  but  the  watching  vil- 
lage saw  boats  go  to  and  fro  between  the  land  and 
the  ships.  The  night  was  dark  and  they  saw  mov- 
ing lanterns.  With  the  dawn  one  of  the  ships  slowly 
felt  her  way  farther  into  the  crooked  channel ;  when 
she  anchored  again  she  lay  much  nearer  than  before, 
and  her  row  of  culverins  grinned  against  the  village. 
Moreover,  three  lesser  pieces  had  been  dismounted 
and  brought  ashore.  In  the  nighttime  they  had 

379 


THE  WITCH 

made  a  platform  and  mounted  these  falcons  or 
sakers. 

As  the  sun  rushed  up,  they  sent  a  broadside 
against  the  wall  and  the  huts  beyond.  The  flame 
and  thunder  terrified,  the  iron  shot  wrought  havoc. 
They  sent  another  round,  tore  a  great  gap  in  the 
hedge,  then  with  a  shout  charged,  the  whole  com- 
pany, across  the  open  strip.  .  .  .  The  bravest  of  the 
village  fought  desperately,  but  the  breach  was  made. 
Many  of  the  assailants  were  partly  mailed.  The  In- 
dians' weapons  turned  against  steel  headpieces  and 
backs  and  breasts.  The  Spaniards'  pikes  and  cut- 
lasses had  advantage;  their  strength  and  ruthless 
practice  had  advantage;  their  name,  their  face,  their 
voice  carried  terror  to  these  forest  people.  Yet  they 
fought,  the  braver  sort  striking  twice  —  for  them- 
selves and  for  those  whose  joints  were  as  water.  The 
old  chief  grew  young  again.  His  eyes  breathed  fire; 
he  fought  and  he  cried  his  people  on  with  a  great, 
chanting  voice.  ...  A  turn  in  the  confused  struggle 
brought  the  black-bearded  Spaniard  facing  Ader- 
hold  and  Joan.  "Mother  of  God!  What's  here? 
White  skins  leading  these  devils  and  fighting  against 
us?  Flay  you  alive  — " 

Men  drove  between.  There  was  a  great  noise,  a 
panting  heat,  a  rocking  and  swimming  of  all  things 
before  the  eyes.  A  crying  arose.  Unlocked  for, 
suddenly,  there  had  been  sent  ashore  from  the 
ships  the  final  numbers  of  their  crew  and  company. 
Thirty,  fresh  assailants  poured  with  shouts  and  lifted 

380 


THE  SPANIARDS 

weapons  through  the  broken  defences.  .  .  .  The 
fearful  among  the  Indians,  and  those  who  thought 
slavery  better  than  death,  threw  down  whatever 
weapons  they  bore  and  made  gestures  of  submission 
and  entreaty.  Others  were  •  overpowered.  There 
were  many  who  could  not  fight  —  the  sick,  the  in- 
firm, and  aged,  many  children.  The  terror  of  these 
and  their  wailings  weakened  the  hearts  of  those  who 
did  fight.  Moreover,  the  Spaniards  knew  what  to  do. 
They  took  a  child  and  threw  it  from  pike  point  to 
pike  point,  and  found  Indian  words  in  which  to 
threaten  a  like  fate  to  every  babe.  The  Indian 
mothers  cried  out  to  fight  no  more. 

The  slave-seekers  came  in  mass  against  those  who 
yet  struggled.  They  cut  down  the  old  chief,  fighting 
grimly ;  they  ran  him  through  the  body  with  a  pike 
and  slew  him.  Aderhold  and  Joan  with  others,  men 
and  women,  fought  before  a  hut  in  which  had  been 
placed  a  number  of  children.  A  Spaniard  came 
behind  Aderhold  and  struck  him  down  with  a  blow 
upon  the  head.  He  lay  for  a  minute  stunned;  when 
his  senses  cleared  all  was  over.  All  were  beaten 
down,  cowed,  disarmed.  Hands  would  have  seized 
Joan.  She  fought  them  off,  sprang  into  the  hut 
and  caught  up  her  child,  then,  with  her  in  her  arms, 
came  back  to  Aderhold 's  side.  .  .  . 

The  victors  were  accustomed  to  victory.  The 
fighting  over,  the  business  conducted  itself  according 
to  custom.  This  affair  differed  only  from  many 
others  in  that  there  had  been  a  resistance  of  unex- 


THE  WITCH 

pected  firmness.  Victory  had  not  been  without  hurt, 
without,  even,  the  loss  of  Spanish  lives.  Business, 
reacting,  conducted  itself  therefore  with  something 
less  of  contemptuous  and  careless  disregard  of  pain 
inflicted  and  something  more  of  vindictive  willing- 
ness to  inflict  it.  The  conquered  were  driven  together 
and  stripped  of  every  belonging  which,  by  any 
ingenuity,  might  be  converted  into  a  weapon  either 
against  their  masters  or  their  own  now  wretched 
lives.  The  black-bearded  captain  told  off  guards, 
and  beside  pike  and  cutlass  the  lash  appeared.  .  .  . 
The  ships  were  to  be  furnished  fruit  and  cassava 
cakes  and  the  casks  filled  with  water.  The  already 
slaves  were  set  to  the  task.  Graves  must  be  dug  for 
the  Spanish  dead,  and  these  the  slaves  dug.  Their 
own  dead  went  unburied.  The  black-bearded  man 
walked  in  front  of  the  rows  of  captives  and  with  a 
jerk  of  his  thumb  indicated  the  too  badly  wounded, 
the  sick  who  would  not  survive  the  voyage,  the  too 
old.  These  they  put  away  with  sword  or  dagger  or 
pike  thrust.  The  children  were  to  go  —  healthy  chil- 
dren had  value.  At  last  he  came  to  Aderhold  and 
Joan.  He  stood  still  before  them,  looked  them  up 
and  down,  his  beard  bristling.  "Spanish?"  he  said, 
"  No,  no!  I  think  not!  —  English,  then?  English  — 
English  —  English!  How  did  you  come  here?" 

"Through  shipwreck." 

"  You  taught  them  to  fight  us.  English  —  English 
—  English!  Well,  we  shall  see,  English!  —  Are  you 
heretics?" 

382 


THE  SPANIARDS 

"If  you  mean  are  we  of  the  English  Church,  we 
are  not  of  the  English  Church." 

"English  have  no  church.  There  is  only  one 
church  and  religion.  Are  you  of  the  Holy  Catholic 
Church  and  Religion?" 

"No." 

"Then,"  said  the  black-bearded  man  and  spat 
toward  them,  "  I  will  take  you  as  a  present  to  those 
who  are." 

He  stood  off  and  regarded  them.  Joan  with  the 
child  sat  on  the  earth,  in  the  hot  sunlight.  The 
child's  terrified  crying  had  hushed;  in  her  mother's 
arms  she  had  sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  She  lay  half 
covered  by  Joan's  skirt,  shadowed  by  her  mother's 
bending  breast  and  face.  The  Spaniard's  counte- 
nance twisted  until  it  was  like  a  gargoyle's  for  cru- 
elty and  ungenial  mirth.  Without  a  word  he  stooped 
and  with  one  great  slashing  stroke  of  his  dagger  slew 
the  child.  .  .  . 

They  bound  Joan,  and  she  lay  at  last,  prostrate 
upon  the  earth,  her  forehead  touching  the  child's 
still  feet.  Aderhold  sat  beside  the  dead  and  the 
living  love.  .  .  .  Around  was  heat  and  glare,  huge 
suffering,  brute  indifference,  brute  triumph,  life 
brought  low,  life  iron-shod  trampling  life,  a  battle- 
field of  instincts,  a  welter  of  emotions,  tendencies  in 
impact,  old  and  deep  ideas  opposed  to  ideas  .  .  . 
and  all  with  which  he  and  Joan  were  ranged  in  time 
and  space,  —  their  stream  and  current  —  here  and 
now,  as  often  before  and  often  to  come,  the  loser, 

383 


THE  WITCH 

the  loser  drowning  in  defeat.  .  .  .  He  felt  the  wide 
cold,  the  check,  the  bitter  diminishing,  felt  it  imper- 
sonally for  the  enormous  current,  the  stream  where 
there  were  so  many  drops ;  then,  because  he  was  man, 
felt  it  for  this  childish  people,  felt  it,  a  bitter  and 
overwhelming  tide,  for  himself  and  Joan.  Woe  — 
woe  —  there  was  so  much  woe  in  living.  .  .  . 

All  the  rest  of  that  day  the  enslaved  brought  food 
and  rolled  casks  of  water  for  the  ships.  When  night 
came  they  were  let  to  sleep,  lying  on  the  ground, 
in  a  herd.  Now  and  again  through  the  darkness  rose 
a  sharp  cry  of  grief,  or  ran  from  one  to  another  a 
sobbing  and  groaning.  But  the  most  slept  heavily, 
without  movement.  Dawn  came,  and  the  slaves 
were  roused.  They  were  permitted  to  eat  a  little 
food  —  and  then  they  were  driven  to  the  shore  and 
into  the  boats.  .  .  .  Their  dead,  their  village,  their 
island  were  severed  from  them.  They  were  left 
naked  to  the  beating  of  new  tides.  .  .  . 

Joan  and  Aderhold  were  put  upon  the  ship  with 
the  darker  sails  —  the  ship  that  had  come  first  to 
the  island.  The  hold  of  this  ship  was  inexpressibly, 
fearfully  crowded  with  the  enslaved.  When  the 
hatches  were  closed,  it  was  a  black  pit,  a  place  of 
gasping,  fighting  for  breath.  When  morning  came 
the  Spaniards,  seeing  that  otherwise  much  of  their 
property  would  die  and  become  no  man's  property, 
drew  out  several  score  and  penned  them  in  a  narrow 
space  upon  the  deck.  Aderhold  and  Joan  were 
brought  forth  with  the  others,  driven  here  with 

384 


THE  SPANIARDS 

them,  pressed  by  the  mass  close  against  the  ship's 
side. 

Day  crept  away,  sunset  came.  The  island  where 
they  had  dwelled  was  long  fallen  from  sight.  Out  of 
the  sea  before  them,  though  as  yet  at  some  distance, 
rose  the  shape  of  an  outermost  islet  of  this  group. 
When  that  should  be  passed,  there  would  lie  an 
expanse  of  ocean,  and,  at  last,  driving  south,  would 
rise  the  great  island  to  which  they  were  bound.  The 
sun  dipped  below  the  horizon,  but  over  against  it 
rose  the  round  and  silver  moon.  By  its  light  could 
be  seen  the  strengthening  outline  of  the  last  island, 
at  length  the  very  curve  of  surf,  the  beach  and 
sombre  palms. 

Aderhold  moved,  touched  Joan  who  sat  as  if  in  a 
trance.  About  them  many  of  the  Indians  had  fallen 
asleep  or  lay,  beaten  down  to  a  half-consciousness. 
At  no  great  distance  were  the  guards.  But  these 
had  no  fear  now  of  that  cowed  shipload,  and  so  paid 
little  attention.  Amidships  and  forward  were  Span- 
iards enough,  but  these  talked  and  swore  or  gamed 
among  themselves  or  gazed  at  the  island  without 
lights  by  which  they  were  slipping.  Aderhold  bent 
and  whispered  in  Joan's  ear.  For  a  moment  she 
sat  motionless;  then  slowly  the  mind  returned  and 
became  active,  though  through  dark  veils  of  woe. 

She  nodded.  "Yes,  yes!  Let  us  go!  If  we  die  we 
may  find  her." 

"Wait  until  that  cloud  is  between  us  and  the 


moon." 


385 


THE  WITCH 

It  came  between  and  the  ship  and  the  decks  dark- 
ened. The  two  rose  with  caution  to  their  feet.  About 
them  were  darkness,  shadowy  forms,  blended  sounds, 
but  no  eye  seemed  to  see  what  they  were  about,  no 
voice  cried  out  an  alarm.  They  were  close  to  the 
ship's  side  —  one  other  moment  and  they  had 
swung  themselves  up,  leaped  overboard.  .  .  .  They 
touched  the  dark  water,  went  under,  rose,  struck 
out.  In  their  ears  rang  no  shout  or  sound  of  dis- 
covery. The  sucking  and  turmoil  of  the  water  about 
them  lessened.  A  fresh  wind  was  blowing  and  the 
ship  sailed  swiftly.  She  was  no  longer  huge  above 
them,  they  came  out  of  her  shadow;  she  was  seen  at 
a  slight  distance,  then  at  a  greater  and  a  greater. 
.  .  .  They  were  free  of  her,  free  also  of  her  consort, 
the  other  ship.  The  wide  ocean  swept  around. 

It  swept  around  save  where  the  island  rose.  It 
rose  not  at  all  far  away,  a  quiet  and  lonely  strand. 
A  light  surf  broke  upon  its  shore.  Sometimes  float- 
ing, sometimes  swimming,  the  two  who  would  yet 
have  life  gained  toward  it.  They  gained  toward  it 
until  at  last  they  reached  it,  came  out  of  the  beating 
surf,  and  lay  with  closed  eyes  and  fluttering  breath 
upon  the  moonlight-coloured  sand. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THE   ISLET 

THIS  was  a  small  island  or  cay.  They  found  water 
and  they  found  fruit  and  cassava,  and  with  these 
and  a  shelter  of  boughs  and  leaves  of  the  little  palm 
they  raised  again  the  flag  of  life.  .  .  . 

The  death  of  the  child.  For  a  time  that  made  of 
existence  a  cruel  buffet,  a  sore  bruise.  The  par- 
ents grieved.  But  time  dealt  with  that  grief  —  time 
and  inner  strength.  At  length  it  diffused  itself,  add- 
ing its  own  hue  to  many-tinted  consciousness,  its 
own  strain  to  life's  vast  orchestration,  but  no  longer 
darkening  and  making  to  throb  all  moments  of.  the 
waking  day.  They  had  within  them  a  coordinat- 
ing, harmonizing  power,  and  sorrow  brought  its 
own  wealth  and  added  to  the  whole. 

The  outward  activities  of  life  narrowed,  indeed, 
upon  this  islet.  But  here  also  they  took  circum- 
stance and  enlarged  its  bounds  and  deepened  its 
meaning.  They  brought  will  and  intellect  to  bear 
upon  environment,  moulded  it  as  far  as  might  be 
and  increased  their  havings.  Here  nor  nowhere  in 
this  universe  could  they  be  less  than  interested. 
Flotsam  upon  this  islet,  yet  here  as  elsewhere  the 
mind  found  food  and  field  of  action  and  through 
small  doorways  passed  into  wide  countries. 

387 


THE  WITCH 

Love  burned  clear,  love  of  man  and  woman.  It 
kept  its  heyday.  But  beside  it  rose,  higher  and  more 
massive  than  in  the  peopled,  busy  island,  other 
ranges  of  the  mind.  The  child's  death  —  and  the 
loss  of  the  Indian  village  and  of  the  old  chief  and  the 
recurring  vision  of  that  oppression  and  the  inhuman- 
ity of  their  kind  —  and  the  deep  loneliness  of  this 
place  —  all  wrought  upon  them.  Moreover,  the 
spring  of  inward  growth  was  strong  and  constant. 
Year  by  year,  with  Joan  as  with  Aderhold,  the  spirit 
travelled  further  in  all  its  dimensions. 

The  mind.  .  .  .  Here  upon  this  span  of  earth  the  old 
ache  for  knowledge,  the  old  brooding  and  longing  of 
the  mind  came  back  to  Aderhold,  came  more  im- 
periously, larger,  wider-robed.  This  ball  of  earth  and 
the  criss-cross  of  movement  upon  it.  This  sun  and 
the  chain  that  held  to  it  the  ball  of  earth.  What 
was  the  chain?  These  stars  and  clouds  of  stars  — 
this  sea  of  ether  —  light  in  waves.  .  .  .  Again,  the 
growth  of  plants  —  motion  fluent  as  a  stream.  And 
the  life  that  dwelt  in  shells  —  that  made  its  armour 
and  outgrew  it.  ...  Ceaseless  change,  transition, 
—  kinds  linked  by  likeness  to  other  kinds,  kinds 
growing  out  of  other  kinds,  the  trunk  branching. 
He  thought  that  all  kinds  might  have  branched  from 
one  or  few,  and  the  selfsame  sap  in  all.  He  did  not 
believe  in  a  myriad  unconnected,  arbitrary  crea- 
tions. .  .  .  But  if  the  least  leaf  and  tendril  knew 
motion,  alteration,  growth,  then  the  sap,  too,  knew 
it — the  sap  that  was  supposed  to  be  so  moveless,  so 

388 


THE  ISLET 

perfected.  .  .  .  Kin  and  kin  again  —  one  and  one 
again. 

As  for  Joan  —  her  mind  trod  differing  roads, 
though  with  many  a  point  of  contact,  many  an  inn 
where  she  met  him  who  travelled  too.  As  of  Heron's 
cottage  her  hands  and  head  had  wrought  a  bright 
pastoral,  an  unf rayed  and  well- woven  garment  of 
life  —  as  in  the  peopled  island  she  had  with  a  larger 
and  a  freer  play,  with  a  more  creative  and  a  nobler 
touch,  made  life  not  an  idyll  only,  but  an  idyll  and 
something  more,  so  here  she  lived  a  nobler  poem. 
Her  child's  death  brought  into  it  deeper  tones,  as  of 
an  organ,  as  of  violins.  And  as  she  had  lit  torches 
for  Aderhold,  so  had  he  lit  torches  for  her.  She 
thought  and  imaged  with  a  wider  sweep  than  had 
once  been  possible.  She  thought  and  imaged  now 
for  the  whole  world;  she  dreamed  light  for  all. 

To  both  the  time  upon  this  isle  was  a  time  of  deep- 
ening vision,  of  a  crescent  sense  of  inward  freedom 
and  power.  To  a  stranger's  chance-lighting  eye  they 
would  have  seemed  but  two  castaways,  narrowly 
environed,  scantly  living,  lonely  and  lost,  of  neces- 
sity wretched.  They  were  not  wretched,  or  lonely, 
or  lost. 

Months  passed  —  the  year  —  a  great  part  of  an- 
other year.  Then  one  day  again  they  saw  a  sail.  .  .  . 
It  was  the  beginning  of  the  stormy  season,  and  there 
had  been  rough  weather.  To-day  the  sky  was  blue, 
the  air  but  gently  moving,  but  there  had  been  a  gale 
to  drive  ships  and  make  wrecks.  This  ship  had  not 

389 


THE  WITCH 

been  greatly  hurt,  but  the  winds  had  driven  her  out 
of  her  course.  Moreover,  there  had  been  leakage 
among  her  water-casks.  It  was  with  joy  that  she 
saw  this  islet  lift  upon  the  horizon.  She  made  it, 
found  a  large-enough  harbour- between  two  horns  of 
coral  rock  and  sand,  and  presently  sent  her  longboat, 
filled  with  seamen,  to  the  shore.  They  rowed  in  cau- 
tiously, keeping  a  good  lookout,  for,  while  it  was  but 
an  islet  and  looked  desert,  there  might  be  Indians  or 
pirates  or  Spaniards.  No  harm  showing,  they  made 
a  landing  and  came  upon  the  shore.  —  It  was  now  to 
search  for  water. 

In  the  search  they  found  a  palm-thatched  hut, 
and,  standing  expectant  before  it,  a  white  man  and 
woman.  —  "Who  be  you?"  demanded  the  boat- 
swain in  good  Devon. 

The  ship  was  the  Eagle,  sailing  home  from  Vir- 
ginia, having  brought  out  colonists  and  supplies. 
Now  it  was  taking  home  samples  of  native  products, 
two  or  three  Indians  for  show,  and  not  a  few  dis- 
satisfied adventurers,  with  others  of  a  stouter  make 
who  were  bound  with  representations  to  the  Com- 
pany or  upon  various  upgathering  missions.  .  .  .  Who 
were  the  white  man  and  woman?  They  were  Giles 
and  Ellice  Herne,  shipwrecked  here  several  years 
ago.  The  captain,  who  presently  came  ashore,  was 
questioning  them.  From  London?  Aye,  then!  and 
their  ship?  The  Needs  Must,  sailing  from  port  of 
London.  The  captain  rubbed  his  brows.  He  did  not 
remember  the  ship  or  the  loss  of  her,  but  then  more 

390 


THE  ISLET 

and  more  ships  were  going  out,  and  he  could  not  re- 
member all  names  or  accidents.  All  lost?  Giles  and 
Ellice  Herne  could  not  tell.  They  had  escaped  in  a 
small  boat.  Those  with  them  had  died.  —  Would 
they  be  taken  back  to  England? —  The  captain  was  a 
bluff  old  sea-dog,  literal-minded  and  not  inquisitive. 
He  assumed  that  their  tale  was  true  in  the  main, 
and  he  assumed  that,  of  course,  they  wished  to  be 
taken  back  to  England.  Otherwise,  there  would  be 
something  wrong  with  them.  He  hardly  waited  for 
an  answer,  but  turned  eyes  and  mind  toward  the 
water-casks.  He  was  in  haste;  he  wished  to  up  sail 
and  away  while  the  sky  was  still  without  clouds. 

The  two,  left  alone  at  last  after  all  exclamation 
and  question,  faced  a  decision  —  how  momentous 
an  one  made  itself  felt  between  them.  They  stood 
in  the  brown  light  of  their  hut,  the  doorway  fram- 
ing blue  sea  and  sky  and  the  Eagle,  quivering  to  be 
gone. 

Aderhold  spoke.  "  If  we  refused  to  go,  it  is  most 
likely  —  it  is  certain,  I  think  —  that  they  would 
force  us  with  them.  We  should  be  thought  mad  — 
or  if  not  that,  they  would  hold  that  we  were  not 
simply  castaways.  They  would  take  us  still,  and 
from  the  first  we  should  rest  under  suspicion." 

"At  any  time  the  Spaniards  may  come  again," 
said  Joan;  "then  again  horror  .  .  .  death.  Or  some 
other  harm  may  come  to  one  of  us  here  —  and  the 
other  left  alone.  That  is  often  in  my  mind,  and  I 
know  that  it  is  often  in  yours." 

391 


THE  WITCH 

"If  we  reached  England  unsuspected  —  if  we 
could  lose  ourselves  in  London  — ' ' 

"  Never  could  we  go  back  to  Hawthorn  —  nor  to 
the  town!" 

"No." 

"Six  years.  .  .  .  Gilbert,  would  we  not  be  safe 
anywhere  else?" 

"Ours  are  matters  in  which  no  one  is  safe  who 
thinks  not  as  his  neighbours.  And  say  we  slipped 
silent  and  down-bent  through  life,  giving  no  present 
authority  offence  —  yet  at  some  corner  comes  one 
who  recognizes  face  or  voice  and  recalls  the  past  — 
'  Ha,  you  hide ! '  And  it  is  all  to  do  again.  ...  I  do 
not  think  we  have  any  choice.  I  do  not  think  this 
captain  will  leave  us  here.  .  .  .  There  have  been 
men  who,  under  feigned  names  and  away  from  the 
place  of  blackest  threatening,  have  lived  long  and 
peacefully.  ...  At  first,  until  we  were  free  of  en- 
quiries and  had  found  work  by  which  we  might  live, 
there  would  be  thick  danger.  .  .  .  We  might  escape." 

"  It  is  best  to  be  with  your  kind." 

"Yes,  it  is  best.   The  world  grows  so." 

"  Oh,  to  see  green  grass  and  English  flowers !  .  .  . 
But  the  child  —  the  child !    We  would  go  farther 
and  farther  from  where  the  child  lies.  ...  I  know 
that  we  must  go." 

"Yes.  She  does  not  lie  there.  She  does  not  stay 
there." 

"No  —  she  is  here  —  she  is  everywhere.  .  .  . 
Well,  let  us  go  bravely." 

392 


THE  ISLET 

Giles  and  Ellice  Herne  went  aboard  the  Eagle. 
Before  sunset  she  had  clapped  on  all  sail  and  was 
moving  swiftly  from  that  island.  It  faded,  faded. 
They  lost  the  clump  of  palm  trees  marking  the  place 
of  their  hut,  lost  the  outline  of  the  tiny  harbour, 
lost  in  the  dusk  the  gleam  of  the  beach  and  the  white 
crests  of  the  incoming  tide.  The  Eagle  was  a  good 
ship  and  a  swift  sailer.  Back  she  came  into  her 
course.  The  bird  that  was  her  figurehead  looked 
east,  looked  north,  between  it  and  its  homing  the 
grey  and  rolling  Atlantic.  Now  she  had  bad  weather 
and  now  she  had  good,  but  the  good  predomi- 
nated. 

The  ship  was  not  crowded,  as  had  been,  six  years 
before,  the  Silver  Queen.  Moreover,  those  aboard 
were  preoccupied,  the  dissatisfied  with  their  dis- 
satisfaction, the  hardier,  more  patient  or  farseeing 
sort,  returning  to  England  only  to  return  thence  to 
their  new  world,  with  their  papers  of  representation, 
their  arguments,  and  busy  schemes.  At  first  there 
was  curiosity  as  to  the  castaways  and  how  they 
had  preserved  life,  alone,  on  that  morsel  of  land. 
That  satisfied,  attention  turned  in  each  on  board 
to  his  own  matters,  or  to  matters  that  seemed 
cognate.  The  rescued  were  quiet  folk  who  kept  to 
themselves ;  doubtless  they  were  dazed  by  long  pri- 
vation and  loneliness,  and  by  this  unexpected  sal- 
vation. .  .  . 

Aboard  were  several  women,  the  captain's  wife, 
and  one  or  two  others  of  the  bolder  sort  who  would 

393 


THE  WITCH 

go  with  their  husbands  to  whatever  new  worlds 
might  be  discovered.  These  helped  Joan  to  fitter 
clothing  than  any  she  possessed.  She  came  back  to 
Aderhold  in  a  linsey  kirtle  and  bodice,  a  small  white 
cap,  and  with  a  kerchief  folded  across  her  bosom. 
"Hawthorn  again,"  she  said  with  a  sob  in  her 
throat.  He,  too,  had  been  given  clothing.  He  was 
dressed  plainly,  like  a  clerk.  No  one  was  by,  the 
soft  dusk  closing  in.  They  stood  for  a  moment  and 
within  them  rose  the  vivid  shape  of  the  past.  They 
smelled  again  the  fern  and  mould  of  Hawthorn 
Forest;  they  heard  again  the  drone  of  the  bees,  the 
singing  of  the  stream  past  the  fairy  oak;  they  heard 
again  the  distant  church  bells.  Rose  the  great 
image,  grave  and  golden,  of  the  six  years  past,  rose 
the  vision  of  the  child,  rose  old  memories,  tender- 
nesses, fears,  rose  forebodings,  prophecies,  realiza- 
tions. It  was  dusk,  the  wind  making  a  low,  sustained 
music.  They  came  to  each  other's  arms,  they  em- 
braced closely,  straining  each  to  each  with  pas- 
sion. They  kissed,  the  tears  stood  in  the  eyes,  fell 
upon  the  cheeks  of  each.  It  was  like  a  farewell, 
and  it  was  like  a  meeting.  .  .  . 

Upon  the  ship  was  a  man  neither  young  nor  old, 
who  had  come  out  to  Virginia  the  year  before,  sent 
by  the  Company  upon  some  investigation.  Now, 
the  work  done,  he  was  returning.  He  had  a  strong, 
determined  face,  steady  eyes  and  a  close-shutting 
mouth.  On  the  day  of  their  coming  aboard,  he  with 
others  had  approached  Giles  and  Ellice  Herne  and 

394 


THE  ISLET 

asked  them  questions.  They  had  been  true  ques- 
tions; he  was  interested  in  knowing  how  they  got 
upon  that  island,  but  preferred  the  detail  of  how 
they  had  managed  to  live  while  there.  After  that, 
with  some  frequency  he  sought  them  out  and  fell 
into  talk.  The  rest  upon  the  ship  were  preoccupied 
with  the  struggles  and  miseries  and  triumphs  of  the 
Colony.  To  them  it  was  growing  to  be  home.  But 
the  Company's  agent,  his  errand  done,  was  return- 
ing to  England  like  Antaeus  to  Mother  Earth.  He 
must  talk,  and  guided  by  some  subtle  principle  of 
choice,  he  talked  to  these  people  who  also  must  be 
homesick  for  England. 

The  two  strove  to  be  guarded,  spoke  little  them- 
selves, passed  well  enough  for  a  quiet  clerk  or 
scrivener  or  teacher  and  his  wife  whom  the  whim- 
sical fortunes  of  the  time  had  made  colonists,  and 
wind  and  wave  and  ill  chance  castaways  on  that 
islet.  Wisdom  made  them  not  too  silent,  not  to 
seem  morosely  so — nor  too  guarded,  not  to  make  it 
evident  that  they  were  watching  from  behind  barri- 
cades. It  was  chiefly  to  Aderhold  that  he  talked, 
Joan  sitting  by,  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  her 
eyes  upon  the  sea,  narrowing  between  them  and 
England.  He  talked,  it  seemed  to  Aderhold,  with 
boldness,  but  then  the  castaway  gathered  that  upon 
the  issues  that  interested  this  man,  men  in  England, 
in  six  years'  time,  had  grown  bolder. 

News  from  England !  News  of  England  when  the 
agent  left  England  last  year  was  the  already  two- 

395 


THE  WITCH 

years-old  news  that  the  king  meant  to  rule  without 
Parliaments.  Perhaps  when  they  landed  in  London 
they  might  find  newer  news  —  perhaps  the  king, 
wanting  money  very  badly,  had  wanted  it  enough 
at  last  to  summon  a  Parliament.  If  that  were  so,  the 
agent  of  the  Company  hoped  that  certain  men  had 
seats.  He  mentioned  among  others  John  Pym. 
News!  There  was  the  news  that  the  Bishops  were 
in  the  saddle.  Episcopacy  had  been  established  in 
Scotland.  Timid  and  recreant  ministers  had  gone 
over,  the  patriotic  were  in  hiding,  —  proscribed. 
The  people  were  at  the  mercy  of  the  wolves  —  the 
Crown's  wolves.  In  England  just  as  bad  —  though 
with  a  difference.  The  Established  Church  rode 
high  and  kissed  the  hand  of  the  king.  "Passive 
obedience!"  It  had  got  its  shibboleth.  "No  power 
in  the  people  and  disordered  multitude."  —  God's 
own  hand  having  touched  the  forehead  of  kings! 
"Did  I  not  tell  ye?"  says  the  king;  and  with  one 
hand  puts  down  the  civil  courts  and  with  the  other 
lifts  the  ecclesiastical. 

News!  The  news  from  England  was  Despotism 
that  barked  like  Cerberus  out  of  three  mouths  — 
King,  Bishops,  and  Favourites!  The  agent's  face 
turned  red  and  the  veins  in  his  forehead  stood  out, 
so  in  earnest  and  angry  was  he.  "News  of  Eng- 
land!" he  said,  "is  that  slaves  will  be  slaves  and 
free  men  will  be  free  men!  News  of  England  is 
that  if  things  better  not  there  will  be  battles ! "  He 
swung  round  upon  Aderhold.  "  I  speak  more  plainly 

396 


THE  ISLET 

than  I  should!  But  if  I  can  read  men,  your  passion, 
too,  is  for  freedom!" 

"Aye,"  said  Aderhold,  "  I  would  be  free." 
Another  time,  when  for  some  minutes  they  had 
been  watching  the  sea  in  silence,  the  determined- 
faced  man  spoke  with  sudden  energy.  "  Do  you  not 
hold  that  the  Presbyterian  or  Calvinist  form  of 
religion  and  the  rule  of  the  people  —  such  as  are 
landowners  and  tend  neither  to  Popery  on  the  one 
hand  nor  to  any  manner  of  disbelief  on  the  other 
— through  Parliaments  duly  chosen  is  the  way  of 
God  upon  earth?" 

Aderhold  kept  silence,  his  eyes  upon  the  moving 
sea.  When  he  spoke  at  last  it  was  almost  dreamily. 
"The  only  way?  .  .  .  Do  you?" 

Something  in  the  fast-flowing  field,  the  field  that 
was  but  the  surface  of  depth,  or  in  the  mist- veiled 
sky,  or  in  the  tone  of  the  castaway,  checked  the 
other's  reply.  At  last  he  said  slowly,  "  It  is  right  to 
resist  a  king  who  would  rule  us  beyond  what  the 
sense  of  man  allows." 

"Yes,"  said  Aderhold,  "that  is  right." 
"That  is  what  I  care  for,"  said  the  agent;  "that 
is  the  way  of  God  to  me.  The  bishops  go  with  the 
king  and  preach  tyranny,  so  the  bishops  are  to  be 
fought  too.  He  who  wishes  to  be  free  surely  will  not 
chain  his  will  to  the  Pope's  throne.  So  what  is  there 
left  but  Calvin  —  if  you  exclude  these  mad  Inde- 
pendents who  spring  up  like  mushrooms!  At  any 
rate,  in  England  to-day  the  men  who  oppose  the 

397 


THE  WITCH 

king's  tyranny  are  like  to  smack  of  Edinburgh  or 
Geneva!" 

"In  a  manner  I  believe  that  to  be  true,"  said 
Aderhold.  "Not  yet  do  they  wish  freedom  around 
and  around.  But  never  will  I  deny  that  it  is  much 
to  begin  to  image  freedom!" 

The  ship  sailed  on  through  good  and  bad  weather. 
To  the  two  castaways  danger  seemed  to  sleep.  No 
one  troubled  them  on  this  ship,  preoccupied  with  its 
own  affairs.  The  fact  that  they  were  seen  with  the 
agent  of  the  Company  procured  for  them  a  certain 
respect.  The  days  slipped  by,  the  weeks  slipped  by 
—  pearl-grey  weeks,  quiet,  halcyon. 

There  came  a  summer  eve  when,  hand  in  hand, 
Joan  and  Aderhold  watched  England  rise  from  out 
the  sea.  None  was  by.  They  stood  long  in  silence; 
then,  "  Do  you  remember,"  said  Joan  in  a  low  voice, 
"how  we  ran  through  the  castle  wood  with  the  great 
moon  on  high?  How  we  lay  in  that  pit  with  the 
branches  over  us  while  they  that  hunted  us  went  by? 
Do  you  remember  the  woman  with  the  three  daugh- 
ters who  gave  us  bread  and  milk?" 

"I  remember  it  all,"  said  Aderhold.  "May  we 
come  forth  now  as  then !  .  .  .  The  smell  of  the  hay 
there  in  the  barn  where  we  lay  all  day.  .  .  .  The 
white  road  that  first  night  from  the  prison  and  the 
starry  sky  over  the  gallows  tree." 

"Over  the  gallows  tree!" 

"Once  I  thought  a  thing  like  that  the  fearfullest 
thing !  Now,  though  I  love  life  more  now  than  I  did 

398 


THE  ISLET 

then,  I  do  not  think  so.  The  old  terrors  grow  smaller. 
They  will  come  one  day,  I  think,  to  cause  laughter." 

"I  understand  that,"  said  Joan.  ''Nor  do  they 
matter  to  me  as  they  did.  Neither  the  gallows  tree, 
nor  words  like  witch  and  sorcerer,  heretic  and 
atheist!" 

The  shore  before  them  grew  in  distinctness,  grew 
and  grew  as  they  stood  there  alone,  withdrawn, 
watching.  With  that  increasing  definiteness,  that 
rigour  of  line  and  hue  and  shape,  came  with  a  grow- 
ing form,  a  growing  sharpness  of  menace,  came  as  it 
had  not  come  to  them  before  upon  this  ship,  a  realiz- 
ing knowledge  that  here  there  was  no  change;  that 
the  hot  ploughshares  and  the  sharp  swords  were  yet 
ready  laid  for  folk  like  them  to  move  across!  Eng- 
land was  England  still.  .  .  .  They  heard  upon  the 
wind,  "  Witch  and  Sorcerer  —  Witch  and  Sorcerer  — 
doubly  damned  for  that  you  were  judged  and  lay  not 
still  under  our  judgement!  Witch  and  Sorcerer.  .  .  . 
Fornicators  — for  in  what  church  were  read  your  mar- 
riage banns,  and  what  priest  with  lifted  hands  blessed 
your  union?  .  .  .  Blasphemers,  deniers,  atheists  who 
pray  not  to  Jehovah!  Witch  and  Sorcerer —  Witch  and 
Sorcerer  — " 

They  were  not  wholly  free  from  fear  and  shrinking. 
They  looked  at  each  other  with  whitened  faces.  But 
they  had  said  true  when  they  had  said  that  they 
were  freer.  They  recovered,  they  smiled  into  each 
other's  eyes.  "  I  wonder  how  much  of  us  they  will 
hang  or  burn  — " 

399 


THE  WITCH 

The  shores  grew  plainer,  higher.  There  came,  sud- 
denly, a  summons  to  the  captain.  They  found  him 
in  the  great  cabin,  papers  upon  the  table.  Still  short 
of  speech,  incurious  and  literal,  he  now  had  duties 
which  he  would  perform.  He  had  to  give  account  to 
the  proper  officers  of  the  Eagle's  voyage  and  of  those 
whom  she  brought  into  England,  and  he  proposed 
not  to  lose  sight  of  the  castaways,  Giles  and  Ellice 
Herne,  until  the  right  authorities  gave  him  quit- 
tance. He  could  not  remember  the  Needs  Must, 
but  there  were  many  who  would.  Any  saved  from 
any  lost  ship  had  an  importance,  for  they  could  give 
to  her  owners  information  where  had  been  guessing. 
Therefore  the  captain  meant  to  send  the  two  ashore 
with  a  trusted  man  who  would  take  them  before 
such  and  such  persons  in  authority.  There  they 
would  be  questioned,  and  if  they  answered  to  satis- 
faction would  doubtless  be  helped.  The  captain, 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand  dismissing  them,  turned  to 
other  business.  He  left  a  sharp  enough  thorn  of 
anxiety  with  the  two  who  had  fled  England  on  the 
Silver  Queen. 

Night  passed.  Morning  broke  —  English  summer, 
soft  and  sweet.  Here  was  the  Thames  mouth,  here 
other  winged  ships  and  ships  at  anchor,  here  the 
green  shores,  the  waving  trees,  the  clustered  houses, 
here  England  —  England ! 

As  they  stood  watching  with  full  hearts  the  agent 
of  the  Company  came  to  them  from  the  poop  deck. 
"  You  have  no  money?  " 

400 


THE  ISLET 

"No." 

"Have  you  friends  in  London?" 

"No."  ' 

He  held  out  to  Aderhold  a  woolen  purse,  open, 
showing  two  gold  nobles  and  some  silver  pieces. 
"Yes,  take  it  —  and  no  need  for  thanks !  I  have  got- 
ten good  from  you.  —  You  will  want  work?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  have  weight  enough  with  the  Company  to  get 
you  a  clerkship." 

Aderhold  thanked  him  again,  and  with  warmth  of 
feeling,  but  shook  his  head.  He  had  plans,  he  said. 
—  But  when  the  agent  was  gone  the  two  smiled  at 
each  other.  Gold  and  plans!  .  .  .  They  had  had 
plans  —  they  had  planned.  What  they  had  planned 
was  to  lose  themselves,  immediately  upon  leaving 
the  ship,  in  the  crowd  which  doubtless  would  gather 
at  the  waterside,  then  to  slip  into  some  street  or 
lane  and  begone.  Somewhere  in  the  tangled  heart  of 
London,  in  some  poor  street,  in  some  garret,  they 
might  find  a  lodging.  Then  work  to  live  by.  .  .  . 
There  had  risen  a  vision,  not  unhomely,  comforting, 
hopeful  —  physician's  work  among  the  poor  and 
obscure,  sempstress  or  spinster's  work,  quiet  life  in 
the  shadow  but  with  gleams  of  sun.  ...  But  now 
the  plans  seemed  hardly  even  gossamer. 

The  Eagle  came  slowly  into  port.  Aboard  was 
bustle  and  confusion.  With  the  rattling  down  of  her 
anchor  appeared  the  small  boats,  the  wherries, 
clamouring  to  take  all  ashore.  A  barge  brought  port 

401 


THE  WITCH 

officers.  These  came  up  the  side.  .  .  .  All  was  wellr 
all  might  go  ashore.  The  agent  of  the  Company 
would  go,  it  seemed,  in  the  port  barge.  Giles  and 
Ellice  Herne  watched  him  leave  the  ship.  He  had 
been  a  friend;  they  felt  gratitude  and  liking;  they 
watched  the  dwindling  boat  and  thought  it  doubtful 
if,  in  this  round  of  life,  they  would  ever  see  the  agent 
again.  .  .  . 

Their  time  came  —  they  were  to  go  with  the 
second  mate,  a  broad-shouldered,  surly,  watchful 
man. 

The  catch  into  which  they  stepped  was  crowded 
with  the  lesser  sort  of  the  Eagle's  passengers.  Here 
were  the  dissatisfied,  returning  folk,  and  here  with 
their  exploiter  were  the  Indians  brought  for  show. 
Aderhold,  looking  at  them,  had  a  fleeting  thought 
of  a  booth,  paused  before  on  a  morning  when  he 
had  set  out  northward  from  London,  years  ago.  .  .  . 
Shipping  loomed  about  them,  Thames  side  before 
them.  The  high,  narrow  houses,  the  roofs,  the  win- 
dows, the  roaring  streets,  the  throng  about  the  water 
steps,  pushing  and  jostling  for  a  sight  of  the  disem- 
barking —  talking  and  shouting,  people  greeting 
and  being  greeted,  a  swarm  and  distraction!  Joan 
sat  elbow  on  knee,  hand  pressed  against  lips,  her 
eyes  wide,  and,  as  far  as  Thames  side  was  con- 
cerned, unseeing.  What  else  she  saw  she  did  not  say, 
but  her  face  had  a  soft  and  brooding  look.  .  .  .  The 
catch  made  its  landing.  Joan  and  Aderhold,  placed 
in  the  stern,  were  the  last  to  come  out  upon  the 

402 


THE  ISLET 

water  stairs.  Before  them  the  second  mate  shoul- 
dered his  way.  About  them  was  the  English  crowd, 
beneath  their  feet  soil  of  England.  Home  —  home 
—  home  where  they  were  born ! 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

THE   HOUR-GLASS 

THEY  were  moving  with  the  second  mate  through  a 
busy  street,  toward  a  harsh  old  pile  of  buildings. 
The  mate  was  a  watchful  man.  To  start  aside  from 
him  into  some  court  or  lane  or  other  street,  to  elude 
him  and  vanish,  was  from  the  start  a  clearly  hopeless 
thing.  Did  they  try  it  he  would  raise  a  hue  and  cry. 
They  went  with  him  in  silence,  watching  Fate  to  see 
what  she  would  do. 

The  street  was  narrow,  the  houses  dark,  and  high, 
with  overhanging  storeys,  with  swinging  signs. 
Above  showed  only  one  pale  stripe  of  sky.  There 
were  booths  and  shops,  with  an  occasional  stentor 
crying  of  "What  d'  ye  lack?  —  What  <T  ye  lack?" 
Many  people  went  up  and  down  —  type  after  type 
that  Aderhold  recalled.  The  years  since  he  had  been 
in  London  had  made  no  great  difference.  He  thought 
that  he  discerned  more  party  men  —  in  many  a 
greater  stiffness  of  bearing,  a  darker  hue  and  plainer 
cut  in  apparel.  The  chance  words  and  phrases 
caught  in  passing  had  an  interest.  .  .  . 

In  old,  old  days  there  had  come  to  him  at  times 
of  crisis,  a  detachment,  an  awareness  of  imperson- 
ality, a  perception  that,  actor  here,  he  was  no  less 
spectator  of  his  action,  safe  in  further  space  and 

404 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

time.  The  perception  returned,  and  came  with 
greater  strength  than  ever  before,  and  with  it,  too, 
an  old  sense  of  deepening  light.  He  turned  his  face 
toward  Joan  beside  him.  .  .  .  She  was  gazing  upon 
London  town,  her  grey  eyes  calm  and  bright,  her  lips 
parted,  rose  colour  in  her  cheeks.  In  a  manner  she 
looked  as  young,  as  free  from  care  and  danger  as 
when,  on  a  holiday,  Joan  Heron  had  come  with  her 
father  from  the  huntsman's  house  in  the  castle  wood 
and  had  strolled  here  and  there  and  to  and  fro  in  the 
town  six  miles  from  Hawthorn.  She  looked  as  young 
and  like  a  girl,  and  yet  the  next  moment  there  moved 
beside  him  the  woman,  the  mind  and  soul  that  had 
grown.  But  the  calmness  held,  the  bright  stillness, 
the  manner  of  radiance.  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  Aderhold's.  "  Do  you  feel  it?  —  I  felt  only 
fear  this  morning,  but  now,  somehow,  I  do  not  be- 
lieve that  I  shall  ever  feel  fear  again.  The  things 
that  were  so  great  have  become  little." 

The  early  morning  had  been  clear,  but  the  sky, 
overcast  when  they  left  the  Eagle,  was  now  darken- 
ing rapidly.  There  came  a  silver  dash  of  rain,  in- 
creasing to  a  downpour.  With  slanted  bodies  and 
bent  heads  men  and  women  hastened  to  shelter. 
Some  hurried  on  to  destinations  not  so  far  away; 
others,  with  farther  to  go,  took  present  refuge  under 
overhanging  eaves  or  in  doorways.  The  rain  fell  with 
a  steady,  rushing  sound;  the  gutters  began  to  fill 
and  overflow;  the  air  grew  dark  and  still.  " Stand 
by,"  said  the  mate,  " until  the  cloud  empties!"  The 

405 


THE  WITCH 

three  stepped  under  the  cover  of  an  antique  porch, 
so  jutting  from  the  building  of  which  it  made  a  part 
that  the  street  had  been  forced  to  bend.  Others  were 
here  before  them,  perhaps  a  dozen  in  all.  Some  were 
citizens,  three  or  four  country  or  small  town  people, 
viewing  the  sights  of  London.  These  had  with  them 
for  guide  and  showman  some  city  friend. 

The  latter  was  speaking  with  distinctness,  in  a 
cheerful  and  complacent  voice.  "  This  was  one  of  the 
old  religious  houses.  Over  yonder  used  to  be  a  field 
where  in  Queen  Mary's  time  they  burned  people." 

The  country  folk  looked  with  interest,  not  at  the 
old  religious  house,  but  at  the  row  of  small  buildings 
where  once  had  been  the  field. 

One  spoke.  "Did  you  ever  see  a  man  or  woman 
burned?" 

"No,"  said  the  citizen.  "It's  dying  out.  They 
mostly  hang  people  now." 

A  man  in  a  sad-coloured  dress  spoke  with  an 
abrupt,  harsh  voice.  "There  are  sins  that  you 
should  burn  for.  I  believe  not  in  your  weak  mercy. 
What  is  good  enough  for  God  on  High  is  good  enough 
for  me.  He  burns  sinners.  If  you  do  not  believe  in 
burning  sinners,  you  do  not  believe  in  God  as  shown 
forth  in  his  written  Word." 

"  I  think  witches  should  be  burned,"  said  the  citi- 
zen. 

The  first  country  speaker  put  in  his  word  again. 
"  I  saw  one  burned  once  when  I  was  a  young  man! 
She  was  a  tall,  fair  wench,  and  when  the  flames  went 

406 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

up  around  her  she  cried  out  only  one  thing  to  the 
crowd  of  us  watching.  She  cried  it  thrice.  'When 
you  feel  fire,  feel  what  you  have  believed! ' " 

"What  did  she  mean?"  asked  the  citizen. 

"I  do  not  know,"  answered  the  countryman. 
" There's  been  an  outbreak  of  witches  this  summer! 
They  're  getting  very  bold  in  the  North.  If  you  hear 
of  one,  the  next  day  you  hear  of  another.  For  one 
thing,  as  soon  as  there 's  known  to  be  a  witch  abroad, 
people  are  on  the  lookout  — " 

The  downpour  of  rain  had  lessened  into  a  shower. 

"Make  sail!"  said  the  mate. 

Leaving  the  porch,  the  three  from  the  Eagle 
moved  on  up  the  narrow  street  between  the  rain- 
washed  houses.  They  were  now  at  no  great  dis- 
tance from  their  destination.  As  they  walked  the 
two  tried  to  hear  the  questions  that  would  be  put  to 
them  and  to  frame  answers.  .  .  .  But  it  was  difficult, 
difficult.  In  both  the  impulse  that  was  gathering 
strength,  that  was,  as  they  both  now  began  to  per- 
ceive, the  destined  conqueror,  was  the  impulse  still 
to  serve  the  truth.  They  were  not  fanatic,  and  they 
loved  life.  But  side  by  side  with  the  recognition  that 
hardly,  hardly  could  they  escape,  that  they  would 
have  to  make  a  tissue  of  statements  that  could  and 
in  all  human  likelihood  would  be  disproved,  streamed 
stronger  and  stronger  the  distaste  for  that  web  of 
misstatement,  the  liking  for  a  plain  relation  of  their 
being  and  its  acts.  They  were  conscious  of  no  ec- 
stasy, no  hot,  martyr  enthusiasm,  but  direction  was 

407 


THE  WITCH 

taken.  With  that  deep  inward  movement  came  to 
each  a  feeling  of  strengthened  personality,  of  unison, 
harmony.  .  .  . 

The  wet  and  glistening  street,  the  houses,  the 
roofs,  the  sky,  the  people  passing  up  and  down,  — 
the  windows,  the  signs  —  Before  them  they  saw  a 
swinging  tavern  sign,  painted  and  cut  in  the  shape 
of  a  great  hour-glass.  The  tavern  had  a  wide  win- 
dow, overhanging  the  street,  and  in  the  window,  as 
the  three  from  the  Eagle  came  in  line  with  it,  ap- 
peared the  ruddy,  determined  face  of  the  agent  of 
the  Company.  He  looked  out  upon  the  street  from 
which  the  rain  had  in  great  part  driven  the  people; 
saw  and  hailed  his  fellow  voyagers. 

"  Well  met,  good  folk!     Whither  away  — " 

The  second  mate  told  the  port  to  which  they  were 
making.  The  man  in  the  window  was  a  person  of  im- 
portance to  the  Eagle  and  its  seamen.  The  mate 
spoke  with  deference,  and  was  ready  to  listen  when 
the  agent  proposed  that  he  and  the  two  shipwrecked 
folk  enter  the  Hour-Glass  and  drink  a  cup  of  wine. 
He  knew  that  the  agent  had  seemed  to  have  a  liking 
for  the  castaways  —  and  they  were  not  precisely  folk 
under  suspicion,  but  only  to  be,  as  it  were,  certified 
for.  The  agent  spoke  again  with  a  touch  of  author- 
ity, and  the  mate  said,  "Very  good,  sir,  and  thank 
you  kindly!  A  few  minutes  won't  matter." 

The  determined-faced  man  had  the  inn's  best 
room  and  had  it  to  himself.  He  welcomed  into  it 
Giles  and  Ellice  Herne,  but  left  the  mate  in  the  com- 

408 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

mon  room  with  the  host  and  a  command  for  what  he 
pleased  to  drink. 

The  mate  spoke  again.  "I'm  ordered,  sir,  not  to 
let  the  shipwrecked  people  out  of  my  sight." 

"If  you  stay  where  you  are  you  will  see  them  still,' 
said  the  agent.  "There  is  but  one  door  to  this  room, 
and  I  leave  it  open." 

The  room  had  a  sanded  floor,  a  table,  and  benches. 
Outside  the  clouds  were  parting,  and  now  a  stormy 
sunlight  broke  through  the  window.  The  street 
began  again  to  fill  with  people  and  their  voices 
came  confusedly  into  the  room.  A  drawer  brought 
wine. 

"  I  frequent  this  inn,"  said  the  agent.  "  Moreover, 
by  good  luck,  I  find  that  a  man  whom  I  greatly  de- 
sire to  see  is  in  London  and  sleeps  here  at  the  Hour- 
Glass.  I  await  him  now,  and  in  the  mean  time  lack 
entertainment.  —  I  was  glad  to  see  you  coming  up 
the  street."  He  poured  wine.  "  Here 's  to  the  Eagle 
and  freedom !  —  Has  England  changed  to  your 
eyes?" 

"Yes  and  no,"  said  Aderhold. 

Bow  bells  were  ringing.  The  sunlight  suddenly 
flooded  the  room.  Without  the  door  the  mate's 
rumbling  voice  was  heard.  "Two  castaways — " 

"  I  have  been  gone  a  year,"  said  the  agent.  "The 
man  that  I  am  looking  for  is  a  coming  man  in  Eng- 
land, and  I  expect  to  learn  from  him  — " 

The  agent  and  Aderhold  were  standing  by  the 
table,  but  Joan  had  seated  herself  where  through  the 

409 


THE  WITCH 

open  casement  she  could  see  the  clearing  sky.  The 
movement  brought  her  into  the  shaft  of  light.  It 
bathed,  it  etherealized  face  and  form.  She  looked 
an  immortal.  .  .  .  Placed  so,  she  came  first  before  the 
eye  when  the  man,  whose  step  was  now  heard  with- 
out, swung  the  door  wider  and  entered  the  room. 

The  agent  started  from  the  table.  "Ha,  Harry 
Carthew!  I  looked  to  find  you — " 

But  Carthew  had  neither  eye  nor  ear  for  the  re- 
turned acquaintance  and  fellow-resister  of  the  King. 
Harry  Carthew  stood  like  a  man  turned  to  stone.  .  .  . 
Six  years  alone  could  not  have  made  him  look  so 
much  older.  He  looked  much  older — a  stern  and 
worn  man,  with  a  grim  mouth  and  eyes  where  enthus- 
iasm now  burned  bright  and  now  sank  among  the 
embers  of  itself.  He  was  dressed  much  as  he  used  to 
dress.  It  was  the  face  and  figure  of  the  man  who  had 
come  to  Heron 's  cottage,  but  there  had  been  a  long 
warfare  in  the  nature  and  some  degree  of  change.  He 
stood  starkly  silent,  with  a  great,  arrested  look,  as  if 
the  very  elements  of  his  being  stood  still.  .  .  .  Joan, 
rising,  passed  from  the  beam  of  light  into  the  shadow 
by  Aderhold.  They  stood  side  by  side,  hand  touch- 
ing hand.  With  a  final  crash  and  clangour  the  bells 
stopped  ringing. 

"What  is  it?"  demanded  the  agent.  "You  know 
these  people  — " 

Carthew  moistened  his  lips.  They  parted,  but  at 
first  there  came  forth  only  an  uncertain  and  broken 
sound.  Then,  —  "You  were  long  sought.  But  when 

410 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

the  Silver  Queen  came  back  from  Virginia  we  learned 
that  you  had  escaped  upon  her,  but  had  been  thrown 
from  her  for  what  you  were,  and  were  dead.  Years 
ago  .  .  .  and  you  stand  there.  ..." 

The  mate  of  the  Eagle  came  to  the  door.  "Sir, 
may  we  be  going  now?  " 

The  agent  crossed  to  him.  "Not  yet.  Wait  a 
little,  there  without  — "  A  voice  spoke  from  behind 
the  mate.  "I  am  with  Master  Carthew.  I  may 
enter,  sir?" 

The  agent  turned  back  into  the  room,  and  with 
him  came  a  slight  man  with  a  steeple-crowned  hat 
and  a  Geneva  cloak.  Joan  and  Aderhold  faced 
Master  Thomas  Clement. 

1  At  last  there  came  from  the  minister's  lips, 
"Thou  witch!  Thou  atheist  and  sorcerer!" 

The  agent  of  the  Company  struck  his  hand  against 
the  table.  "Who  are  these?" 

Harry  Carthew  turned  and  walked  stiffly  to  the 
window-seat.  When  he  reached  it  he  sank  down, 
rested  his  locked  arms  against  the  sill,  and  his  fore- 
head upon  his  arms.  But  Master  Clement  was  of 
more  iron  make.  His  long  forefinger  shot  out  toward 
the  two;  he  raised  his  arms,  the  black  cloak  falling 
away  from  them,  his  small  figure  dilated;  he  shook 
his  lean  and  nervous  hands ;  his  voice,  beginning  on  a 
low  tone,  grew  shrill  and  rapid;  his  eyes  burned. 
Zeal  for  the  honour  of  his  God  had  him. 

"Who  are  they?  Scorners  of  God  and  deniers  of 
Revelation!  Yoke-fellows  with  Satan  and  blas- 

411 


THE  WITCH 

pheming  workers  and  doers  of  evil!  Who  are  they? 
Breakers  forth  from  prison  and  just  doom  —  cheat- 
ers of  stake  and  gallows  —  froth  of  hell !  Who  are 
they?  Say  not  that  you  have  forgotten  the 
Hawthorn  trials!" 

"The  Hawthorn  trials!" 

"Who  in  England  heard  not  of  them?  Of  the 
wicked  certain  ones  were  hanged,  but  there  broke 
gaol  and  escaped  the  unbeliever  and  sorcerer  Gilbert 
Aderhold  and  the  witch  Joan  Heron ! "  He  stretched 
his  arms  higher,  he  shook  his  hands  more  vehe- 
mently. "  But  God  for  his  glory,"  he  said,  "  bringeth 
them  back!" 

Aderhold  and  Joan  stood  straight  and  silent.  The 
shock  of  the  encounter  had  driven  the  colour  from 
cheek  and  lip,  but  there  was  no  other  sign  of  cowing. 
They  knew  now  that  they  were  in  the  arms  of  death. 
The  knowledge  did  not  frighten.  This  very  day  they 
had  taken  their  direction  —  they  were  moving  now 
as  they  had  determined.  .  .  .  The  agent  leaned 
against  the  table,  pale  and  staring. 

Aderhold  turned  and  spoke  to  him.  "Our  names 
are  Joan  Heron  and  Gilbert  Aderhold.  We  are  not 
witch  and  sorcerer  —  nor  yoke-fellows  with  Satan 
—  nor  blasphemers  of  good.  But  we  were  judged 
by  our  neighbours  and  by  the  law  to  be  such,  and 
we  were  condemned  to  death  and  put  in  prison.  By 
the  help  of  a  gaoler  who  is  dead  we  escaped.  We 
managed  to  stow  ourselves  upon  the  Silver  Queen. 
In  the  seas  near  the  island  where  the  Eagle  found  us, 

412 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

our  names  were  discovered  and  the  Silver  Queen 
cast  us  adrift.  By  this  fortune  and  by  that  we  came 
first  to  a  larger  island  and  then  to  the  islet  from 
which  the  Eagle  took  us.  That,  so  far  as  is  needful 
to  tell  you,  is  our  story.  You  have  been  good  to  us, 
knowing  only  what  we  showed.  If  you  will  believe, 
what  we  showed  was  ourselves." 

Joan's  voice,  a  rich,  clear,  low  voice,  followed  his. 
"  I  am  no  witch,  and  he  is  no  sorcerer.  I  was  a  coun- 
try girl  and  he  a  physician  who  helped  many.  Now 
we  are  a  man  and  woman  who  fare  forward,  wishing 
no  ill  to  any." 

As  she  spoke  she  moved,  unconsciously,  a  step 
nearer  to  the  table.  The  agent  of  the  Company 
recoiled,  put  out  his  hand  against  her  closer  ap- 
proach. In  his  face  was  a  white  horror.  He  remem- 
bered the  Hawthorn  witch  trial.  That  year  he  had 
chanced  to  be  in  company  with  the  elder  Carthew, 
and  no  detail  but  had  been  given  him.  The  very 
words  of  a  ballad  made  upon  the  witch  Joan  Heron 
came  into  mind  —  forgotten,  he  might  have  thought, 
long  since,  but  now  flashing  out  in  letters  of  fire  — 
hell  fire.  It  had  been  a  ballad  sold  and  bought 
throughout  England,  and  it  spared  no  strange  asser- 
tion, nor  none  that  was  gross.  The  Witch  Joan  Heron. 
The  ballad  rang  in  his  ears.  He  saw  its  title.  THE 
ABHORRED  WITCH;  or,  THE  MONSTROUS 
LIFE  OF  JOAN  HERON.  ...  A  look  of  sickness 
passed  over  the  agent's  face,  no  longer  ruddy.  He  put 
his  arm  above  his  eyes.  "  Avaunt,  witch ! "  he  said. 

413 


THE  WITCH 

Joan  stepped  back.  Her  eyes  sought  Aderhold's. 
He  bent  toward  her,  took  her  hands.  She  smiled 
and  said  in  the  Indian  tongue  they  had  learned  upon 
that  island.  "Heart  of  my  heart!  The  great  sea  is 
cold  at  first—" 

"Hark!"  cried  Master  Clement.  "She  speaks  the 
tongue  she  learned  of  Apollyon!" 

Harry  Carthew  rose  from  the  window-seat.  His 
face  was  yet  without  colour,  drawn  and  sunken,  grim 
and  set.  For  the  most  part,  with  an  iron  effort,  he 
kept  his  voice  under  control,  but  now  it  broke  and 
sank  and  now  it  took  a  cadence  of  pain  and  horror. 
He  leaned  against  the  wall  for  support,  and  once  or 
twice  he  lifted  his  eyes  to  where,  in  his  thought, 
there  sat  God  whom  he  had  angered.  "Master 
Clement,  and  my  friend  here,"  he  said,  "God  knows 
I  cannot  doubt  that  this  man  is  a  sorcerer  and  this 
woman  a  witch !  In  his  Bible  God  tells  us  that  there 
are  such  and  commands  that  they  be  done  to  death.  * 
Moreover,  from  old  time,  wise  judges  and  men  of 
law  and  knowledge,  and  devout  and  holy  preachers 
of  the  Word  have  showed  us  how  these  wicked 
abound !  As  for  these  two,  all  manner  of  witness  was 
brought  against  them,  and  proof  irrefragable.  Yea, 
and  those  who  were  hanged  confessed  that  these 
two  kept  by  day  and  by  night  companionship  with 
Satan  and  did  monstrous  wickednesses.  And  that 
the  man  is  an  apostate  and  blasphemer,  an  atheist 
worthy  of  death,  has  been  proved  —  nay,  he  himself 
denied  nothing  in  that  sort.  All  that,  and  the  doom 

414 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

pronounced  against  them,  in  this  world  and  in  the 
next,  stands  for  true  and  lasting,  and  I  have  no 
part  in  it,  and  there  the  shadow  comes  not  against 
me.  ...  But  there  is  a  sin  upon  my  soul,  and  God 
gives  me  no  rest  until  I  tell  it  — "  He  wheeled 
toward  Master  Clement.  "I  will  tell  it  here  and 
now,  and  appoint  me  a  day  and  I  will  tell  it  in  open 
church  —  So  may  offended  God  pardon  me!" 

' '  Harry  Carthew !  Harry  Carthew ! ' '  cried  Master 
Clement.  ' '  Every  man  alive  has  sin  against  his  soul ! 
The  soul  of  every  man  alive  is  black  as  midnight, 
and  no  dawn  cometh  to  it  save  from  one  that  is  not 
himself !  Unless  and  save  the  dayspring  chooseth  to 
shine  upon  that  soul,  it  resteth  black  and  lost  —  it 
hath  in  itself  no  power  of  motion  and  light!  But 
God  hath  elected  thee,  Harry  Carthew!  But  this 
man  and  woman  are  of  the  deep  gulf  of  hell,  predes- 
tined and  damned  of  eternity!  What  have  you  to 
do  with  them,  my  brother,  my  son  —  for  Christ 
knoweth  I  love  thee  as  a  son  — " 

"What  had  I  to  do  with  them?"  said  Carthew. 
"  I  will  tell  you!  At  the  trial  in  the  town  I  gave  evi- 
dence that  he  struck  me  in  the  side  with  a  dagger 
that  eve  upon  his  road  to  prison.  I  lied.  Sorcerer 
and  atheist  though  he  be,  he  told  truth  when  he  said 
that  he  did  not  so.  And  witch  though  she  be,  this 
woman  told  truth  when  there  in  the  court  she  cried 
out  against  me.  She  told  truth  when  she  cried  that 
that  night  I  had  come  to  her  cottage  to  tempt  her 
and  that  she  struck  me  with  a  hunting-knife.  .  .  . 

415 


THE  WITCH 

What  was  I?  I  was  a  young  man,  mad  for  a  fair 
woman  —  fair  as  her  mother  Eve  who  sinned  before 
her!  What  was  I?  I  was  a  man  desirous  to  increase 
in  name  and  fame,  desirous  of  leadership  —  who 
therefore  must  not  let  men  view  his  sin!  But  it  was 
sin,  and  I  know  not  if  there  be  a  greater  — " 

If  he  began  as  to  a  more  general  audience,  he 
ended  with  a  haggard-eyed  appeal  to  Master  Clem- 
ent. .  .  .  The  minister's  frame  trembled ;  with  a  pale 
and  scared  face  he  fronted  Harry  Carthew  whom 
he  truly  loved.  " Harry  Carthew!  Harry  Carthew! 
Pray  to  God—  " 

"I  pray,"  said  Carthew.  "Night  and  day,  I 
wrestle  in  prayer.  I  thought  that  He  had  answered 
and  given  me  peace  in  service.  The  moment  I 
ceased  to  serve  and  to  act  for  this  England,  that 
moment  Gehenna  opened  in  my  soul.  .  .  .  But  now 
I  see  that  He  wanteth  open  confession."  He  turned 
upon  the  two  where  they  stood  beyond  the  shaft  of 
light.  "Joan  Heron,  I  wronged  you,  —  and  Gilbert 
Aderhold,  I  wronged  you,  —  and  that  I  must  say, 
though  you  be  the  Fiend's  own!  I  must  say  it, 
though  I  stood  in  heaven  and  looked  across  the  gulf 
upon  you  in  hell — "  He  sank  upon  a  bench  by 
the  table  and  flung  his  clasped  hands  above  his 
head.  "God,  God!  Grant  me  but  to  save  my  soul 
alive!" 

Silence  held  in  the  room  at  the  Hour-Glass.  The 
agent  of  the  Company  leaned  against  the  table, 
white  and  shaken.  Master  Clement  came  to  Car- 

416 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

thew,  put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  spoke  in  a 
trembling  voice.  "A  great  sin  verily,  and  greatly 
to  be  repented.  .  .  .  But  not  the  great  sin,  Harry 
Carthew  —  not  the  Unpardonable  Sin.  .  .  .  God 
will  have  mercy.  He  will  forgive.  Have  you  not 
served  Him  well,  and  will  you  not  do  so,  ever  the 
more  zealously?  And  will  you  not  forever  more 
guard  your  ways,  that  you  fall  not  again  into  the 
pit?  I  trow  that  you  will !  Harry  Carthew  —  Harry 
Carthew,  we  will  pray  together!  You  are  too  valu- 
able —  This  very  night  I  will  come,  and  on  our 
knees  we  will  wrestle  with  Him  as  did  Jacob  of 
old  —  " 

Joan  and  Aderhold  stood  hand  in  hand.  What 
now  they  felt  and  thought  was  simple  and  whole. 
This  room  with  its  occupants  seemed  not  to  have 
over-greatly  to  do  with  them  —  it  had  widened  out 
—  they  felt  a  larger  world.  ...  It  was  as  though 
these  old  quarrels  were  childish  concerns  and  fears 
and  quarrels  —  small,  intense,  unknowing  things  — • 
childish,  pitiful.  They  felt  them  so,  and  yet  they 
did  not  feel  old,  they  felt  young.  .  .  . 

Aderhold  spoke,  again  to  the  agent  of  the  Com- 
pany. "  Knowing  nothing  of  our  story,  save  that  we 
were  shipwrecked  folk,  you  showed  us  much  kind- 
ness. It  does  not  hurt  to  take  the  thanks  of  ship- 
wrecked folk.  Believe  that  we  are  grateful  for 
that  kindness.  This  is  to  end,  we  know,  in  giving  us 
into  the  hands  of  the  law.  Then  let  them  call  those 
who  will  take  us." 


THE  WITCH 

Carthew  rose  from  the  seat  where  he  had  thrown 
himself.  What  wild  emotion  had  possessed  and 
actuated  him  was  driven  to  cover  and  stillness.  His 
face  was  grey,  but  set  and  grim  with  no  softening 
in  its  lines.  He  would  have  said  that  softening  were 
further  sin.  Out  like  a  burned  candle  had  gone  long 
since  his  passion  for  Joan  Heron  that  had  never  been 
high  love. 

His  eyes  met  those  of  Master  Clement,  "Aye," 
he  said,  " end  it!" 

Master  Clement  nodded,  turned,  and  left  the 
room. 

There  was,  it  seemed,  no  great  distance  to  send, 
and  those  sent  for  were  not  long  in  coming.  Without 
the  Hour-Glass  it  was  now  bright  afternoon  and 
many  people  going  up  and  down.  Whenever  and 
wherever  watch  or  ward  was  summoned  the  act  of 
its  summoning  was  apt  immediately  to  become 
known.  It  was  so  here  and  now,  and  a  crowd  began 
to  gather  before  the  Hour-Glass.  How  there  started 
a  whisper  of  heinous  crime,  of  escaped  and  retaken 
caitiffs,  it  were  hard  to  say.  Perhaps  the  host  or  the 
now  staring  and  greatly  excited  mate  of  the  Eagle 
had  heard  somewhat  and  had  repeated  what  he  had 
heard.  But  there  started  a  murmur  which  grew  to  a 
buzzing  sound  and  threatened  to  become  clamour. 
"What  was  done?  —  Who  is  it?  Ho,  there,  Hour- 
Glass!  What  happened?"  The  law  appeared  — 
half  a  dozen  burly  armed  men  with  an  officer  at  their 
head.  "Within  the  Hour-Glass!  Let  us  pass,  good 

418 


THE  HOUR-GLASS 

people,  let  us  pass!"  They  entered  the  tavern. 
Outside  the  crowd  and  the  noise  grew.  " Traitors?" 
cried  one,  and  another,  " Poisoners?"  but  a  third, 
"I  can  see  through  the  window.  It's  a  woman  — 
Witch/  Witch!" 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

A  JOURNEY 

THEY  lay  for  a  month  in  prison  in  London.  Then, 
all  procedures  having  been  met,  the  law  would 
return  them  to  the  county  where  they  had  offended 
and  the  gaol  from  which  they  had  broken  and  the 
gallows  field  which  had  waited  six  years. 

They  rode  from  London  in  company  of  a  sheriff  and 
a  dozen  horsemen,  and  they  went  by  the  road  which 
Aderhold  had  travelled  years  before.  He  recognised 
this  place  and  that.  Where  the  ways  were  bad  — 
and  they  were  often  bad  —  they  dismounted  and 
went  afoot.  So  many  were  with  them  and  so  no  dan- 
ger at  all  was  there  of  escape,  that  they  were  left 
unshackled,  were  even  let  to  draw  a  little  to  them- 
selves. At  first  the  guard  was  rough  of  tongue,  ready 
with  frequent,  unneeded  commands,  ready  with 
coarse  gibes.  But  the  two  answered  quietly,  or  were 
silent  without  sullenness,  and  there  was  something 
in  them  that  gave  check.  ...  At  last  the  men  con- 
veyed them  without  insult,  without  much  further 
speech  to  them  direct.  At  night,  when  they  came  to 
town  or  village,  they  were  lodged  in  the  gaol.  When 
they  passed  where  there  were  people,  and  if  it  be- 
came known  what  manner  of  felons  were  here,  they 
met  with  savage  jeers  and  execrations.  Sometimes 

420 


A  JOURNEY 

mud  was  thrown,  sometimes  flints.  But  it  was  not 
the  guard's  cue  to  tell  names  and  offence  —  and  Eng- 
land was  not  as  populous  then  as  now  —  and  there 
were  long  miles  of  lonely  peace.  To  Joan  and  Ader- 
hold  they  seemed  at  times  miles  of  a  beautiful,  a 
sunny  peace.  They  knew  how  to  talk  together  with 
few  words,  with  a  glance  of  the  eye.  And  there  were 
many  times  when,  some  space  allowed  them  and  the 
guards  talking  among  themselves,  the  road  became 
as  it  were  their  own.  Then  they  spoke  freely,  though 
with  low  voices. 

It  was  late  summer,  with  autumn  well  in  view 
upon  the  slope  of  the  year.  The  landscape  was  grow- 
ing russet,  and  none  the  less  fair  for  that.  And  it 
was  England  —  England  after  the  blue  plains  of  the 
sea  and  the  low,  coral  isles.  And  it  was  country  and 
pure  air  after  the  fetid  London  prison.  And  it  was 
the  land  where  they  were  born  —  it  was  home,  seen 
after  years  away.  These  green  fields  and  spreading 
trees  —  this  English  sky  —  these  birds  and  flowers 
and  crystal  streams  —  these  were  no  foes  of  theirs. 
These  had  never  cast  them  out.  Here  as  elsewhere, 
the  great  round  earth  had  its  own  orthodoxy,  but 
took  scant  heed  of  man's.  .  .  .  They  saw  England 
after  long  absence ;  and  for  all  that  they  were  to  be 
slain  here,  they  could  find  it  beautiful,  and  for  all 
that  they  knew  where  ended  this  road,  they  played 
with  the  happenings  upon  it. 

Twenty  miles  out  from  London  the  sheriff's  horse 
cast  a  shoe,  and  at  the  next  smithy  all  must  halt 

421 


THE  WITCH 

until  Grey  Dick  was  shod.  The  smithy  stood  in  the 
pleasant  shadow  of  an  oak  so  great  that  it  must 
have  been  growing  when  the  Conqueror  came  over. 
The  hot  smithy  fire  glowed  within,  iron  struck 
rhythmically  against  iron.  Beyond  the  tree  was  a 
well,  and  all  were  thirsty.  They  had  not  drawn 
bridle  for  several  hours.  The  men  dismounted  — 
the  two  prisoners  were  given  leave  to  do  likewise, 
even  to  rest  upon  the  earth  beneath  the  oak. 

The  four  children  of  the  smith  sat  upon  a  log  and 
watched  with  an  intensity  of  interest  horses  and 
men  and  all  their  movements,  and  the  man  and 
woman  half  sitting,  half  lying  beneath  the  oak.  The 
smithy  dog  came  up  to  these  two,  snuffed  around 
them,  and  then  lay  down  at  their  feet.  Clink! 
Clink!  and  the  trees  began  to  wave  in  an  afternoon 
breeze,  and  the  voices  of  the  men  about  the  well  and 
the  smithy  door  sounded  cheerful  and  hardy.  The 
two  had  no  misliking  for  the  bright  world.  They 
sat  watching  the  children.  .  .  .  The  youngest  child, 
a  yellow-haired  mite  of  three,  would  make  an 
excursion  of  its  own  from  the  log,  past  the  oak,  to 
the  door.  In  the  course  of  the  journey  it  came  upon 
a  protruding  root,  stumbled  over  it  and  fell.  Joan 
sprang  forward  and  lifted  it  to  its  feet.  "  There, 
there !  You  're  not  hurt  —  Look  at  the  pretty  flower 
you  fell  against!"  The  child  decided  not  to  cry, 
laughed  instead.  Joan's  arm  curved  about  the  sturdy 
small  form  and  pressed  it  to  her.  "  Ah,  what  a  good 
baby!"  — The  child  was  willing  to  stay  and  play, 

422 


A  JOURNEY 

but  with  suddenness  found  herself  released,  given  a 
gentle  push  back  toward  the  three  upon  the  log. 
Joan  took  her  seat  again  upon  the  turf.  "  It  was  n't 
wise  to  touch  her.  It's  strange  that  it  should  be  so, 
but  if  any  saw  they  might  bring  it  against  her  when 
she  is  grown." 

She  spoke  without  any  pain  for  herself  in  her 
voice,  but  with  yearning  and  tenderness  for  the 
child.  "Now  she's  there  and  happy!  She's  got  a 
stick  to  play  with." 

"  Joan,  Joan!"  said  Aderhold.  "There  will  come 
a  day  —  " 

The  horse  was  shod,  the  well-water  drunk,  guard 
and  prisoners  took  again  the  road.  The  smith  and 
his  man  had,  at  the  last,  their  curiosity  satisfied. 
"Witches  and  wizards!  —  Nay,  if  I  had  known 
that—" 

The  road  presented  its  stream,  here  full,  here  very 
thin,  of  autumn  travel.  Little  pictures  and  the 
whole  picture  had  a  clear,  a  vivid  interest.  Market 
people  went  by,  drovers  with  cattle,  sturdy  beggars, 
children,  country  girls  and  swains,  carters  and  their 
carts,  mounted  travel  of  merchants  or  justices  or 
churchmen  or  country  gentlemen.  The  mounted 
travel  would  always,  authoritatively,  have  its  curi- 
osity gratified.  ' '  A  ward  with  prisoners !  —  Who  are 
your  prisoners,  sheriff?  "  The  second  morning  it  was 
a  party  of  young  gallants  who  would  know  this. 
They  wore  feathered  hats,  fine  riding-clothes,  boots 
of  soft  leather,  their  hair  somewhat  long  and 

423 


THE  WITCH 

curled.  They  were  for  King  and  Church  —  would 
all  live,  perhaps,  to  fight  on  that  side.  "Prisoners! 
What  are  your  prisoners,  sirrah!"  Then,  when  they 
knew,  —  "Witch!  Witch!  A  young  witch,  too! 
Let's  see  her  —  Zounds!  Who's  the  man?  .  .  .  The 
Hawthorn  two  who  fled!  Gilbert  Aderhold  —  Joan 
Heron!1'  Certain  of  these  gallants  had  been  in 
London  and  knew  of  the  recapture.  It  had  been 
common  talk.  The  king  had  learned  of  it.  "Joan 
Heron !  —  Joan  Heron !  Let 's  see  —  let 's  see !  Grey 
eyes  —  gold  hair  —  no,  hair  like  bronze,  pale 
bronze.  .  .  .  Would  you  dare  to  kiss  a  witch?"  — 
"No!"  —  "Yes!"  —  "No!"  —  "Yes,  I  would!"  — 
"To  make  the  Devil  jealous  —  that  were  a  parlous 
thing!"  —  "Parlous  or  not,  if  she  hath  grey  eyes 
and  red  lips — " —  "Kiss  her  —  clip  her  in  thy 
arms  and  to-night  she  will  come  as  succuba  and  kiss 
and  clip  thee !  Then  hark  to  thy  roar,  '  A  vaunt,  thou 
hag!  Will  none  save  me  from  the  foul  fiend?'"  — 
"Joan  Heron!  Rememberest  the  ballad,  THE 
DEVIL  AND  JOAN  HERON?"  — "But  thou'rt 
not  called  'Daredevil'  for  naught!"  —  "Do  you 
dare  me?"  —  "Yes,  yes!  We  dare  you!"  —  "Kiss 
her  hard,  clip  her  fast  —  No,  no.  Master  Sheriff! 
Fair  play  —  make  a  ring!  .  .  .  Now!  Now!"  .  .  . 
' '  Well,  thou  hast  courage! "  .  .  .  "  She  did  not  strug- 
gle, —  as  do  honest  women  or  those  who  would  be 
thought  honest!"  "To-night,  to-night,  when  thou 
hast  put  out  the  light,  look  to  find  her!"  —  "Ha, 
ha!  ha,  ha!  JOAN  HERON  — " 

424 


A  JOURNEY 

They  won  away  from  those  of  the  feathered  hats. 
Space  widened  between  the  two  cavalcades,  the 
voices  of  the  gallants  died  from  the  ear.  The  road 
lay  bright  and  sunny,  the  morning  air  blew  fresh  and 
sweet.  The  great  earth  swept  calm  to  the  horizon, 
the  sky  sprang,  a  pure  and  cloudless  arch.  For  a 
long  way  the  road  ran  lonely  of  travellers  other  than 
the  sheriff,  his  men,  and  the  prisoners.  Joan  and 
Aderhold,  riding  together,  talked  in  low  tones. 
After  a  time  they  were  passing  through  a  forest. 
They  loved  the  brown  earth  and  the  bracken,  the 
boughs  overhead,  the  purple  distances. 

"I  remember  this  wood,"  said  Aderhold.  "I  lay 
and  rested  under  these  trees  and  wondered  what  was 
before  me.  .  .  .  And  I  could  not  see  thee.  —  I  did 
not  know  the  lovely  thing  that  was  before  me." 

"And  that  night,  at  home,  I  slept  and  dreamed  — 
and  saw  not  thee." 

"  There  are  glories  in  our  lives.  With  every  pain 
and  sorrow  counted  in,  we  have  not  been  unhappy." 

"No.  Pain  did  not  win.  And  the  light  was 
brighter  yesterday  than  the  day  before,  and  brighter 
to-day  than  yesterday.  .  .  .  Look  at  the  bird  flying 
up!" 

The  third  night  the  troop  did  not  arrive,  in  time 
for  rest,  at  any  town  or  village.  A  heavy  rain  had 
fallen  and  delayed  progress.  They  came  at  dark 
to  three  or  four  mean  houses,  clustered  around  one 
of  better  proportions,  an  inn  by  the  sign  just  made 
out  through  the  dusk  and  the  autumn  mists.  There 

425 


THE  WITCH 

was  not  much  to  eat,  but  it  might  be  made  to  do  — 
straw  could  be  shaken  down  —  there  was  a  great 
fireplace  where  blazing  warmth  might  be  had.  .  .  . 
To  Joan  and  Aderhold,  accustomed  to  the  sun,  good 
was  this  warmth!  There  was  one  great  stone- 
flagged  room,  large  as  a  baron's  hall.  When  the 
dozen  men  of  their  guard  disposed  themselves,  there 
was  yet  space  where  the  ruddy  glow  might  reach 
them,  dry  their  clothing  wet  with  the  rain,  warm 
their  bodies.  Where  there  was  not  overmuch  for  any, 
their  portion  of  supper  was  small,  indeed,  but  it 
sufficed.  When  all  would  sleep,  lying  about  the  fire 
upon  the  straw  which  the  inn's  servitors  brought  in, 
the  two  were  thrust  to  a  corner  at  the  far  end  of  the 
place,  farthest  from  the  door.  A  watch  was  set  — 
a  stanch  man  relieved  each  two  hours  by  another. 
The  sheriff  meant  no  slipping  of  the  wizard  and 
witch  out  of  his  fingers.  But  sleeping  time  was  not 
yet  come.  The  two  sat  to  one  side,  watched,  but  no 
more  closely  than  was  thought  necessary. 

Beside  the  sheriff  and  his  men  there  were  the  host 
and  hostess,  three  or  four  uncouth  servingmen  and 
maids,  and  one  other  traveller,  belated  like  the  rest. 
This  was  a  gentle-faced  old  man,  the  parson,  it  was 
learned,  of  a  parish  a  dozen  miles  away.  .  .  .  The 
night  before,  in  a  town  of  fair  size,  the  names  of  his 
prisoners  becoming  known,  the  sheriff  had  had 
trouble  to  rescue  them  from  the  mob  that  gathered. 
This  day,  therefore,  he  would  keep  secret  the  full 
heinousness  of  the  pair  —  along  the  way  and  here  it 

426 


A  JOURNEY 

was  said  only  that  they  were  a  man  and  woman 
accused  of  witchcraft  and  apostasy,  being  transferred 
from  one  gaol  to  another. 

Under  this  description  the  inn  folk  looked  aside  at 
them  with  great  curiosity  arid  fear.  At  supper  time 
none  could  be  found  willing  to  carry  to  them  from 
the  kitchen  their  bit  of  coarse  bread  and  pitcher  of 
water.  The  host  was  busied  elsewhere ;  the  hostess 
put  down  her  foot  that  she  would  not ;  the  men  and 
maids  laughed  vacantly  and  stared,  but  would  not 
budge  in  that  direction.  The  old  man,  the  parson, 
who  chanced  to  be  by,  uttered  a  word  of  gentle 
chiding,  then,  as  all  still  hung  back,  himself  picked 
up  the  bread  and  water  and  carried  them  to  the  two. 
They  thanked  him.  He  stood  looking  at  them  with 
a  gentle,  pained  face.  Called  to  supper  at  the  long 
table  where  the  sheriff  and  his  men  were  noisily  tak- 
ing places,  he  went  away.  But  presently,  his  own 
frugal  meal  quickly  made,  he  came  back.  Theirs, 
too,  was  made.  They  were  seated  on  the  stone  floor- 
ing, shoulder  against  the  wall,  hand  touching  hand. 
They  had  no  look  of  wicked  folk. 

The  old  man  found  a  stool,  brought  it  and  sat 
down  beside  them.  "  You  look  worn  and  tired.  The 
roads  have  been  bad  to-day." 

He  spoke  to  Joan.  "Bad  here  and  there,"  she 
said.  "We  are  a  little  tired." 

The  old  man  sat  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
Then  he  spoke  with  simplicity.  "  Is  it  true  that  you 
are  apostates  from  religion?" 

427 


THE  WITCH 

"What,"  said  Aderhold,  "is  religion?  —  Is  it  love 
of  good?  Then,  with  our  hand  in  death's,  I  dare  aver 
that  we  are  not  apostates!"  He  smiled  at  the  old 
man.  "Since  we  entered  this  room  you  have  shown 
us  a  piece  of  religion." 

"  I  would  show  you  truly,"  said  the  old  man  ear- 
nestly. "I  would  show  you  Jesus." 

Aderhold  answered  gently.  "You  do  so,  sir.  Be- 
lieve that  all  of  us  know  Jesus  when  we  meet  him." 

The  old  man  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "You 
do  not  seem  to  me  wicked  people.  I  know  not  how 
it  is,  but  you  seem  —  "  The  sheriff  and  his  men 
rose  noisily  from  table.  There  immediately  ensued  a 
bustle  in  the  place  —  boards  and  trestles  being  taken 
away  —  bundles  of  straw  brought  in  —  men  going 
forth  to  look  after  the  horses  —  men  coming  in  with 
the  breath  of  the  wet  night.  One  came  and  called 
the  old  parson,  drew  him  away  toward  the  small 
inner  room  where  he  was  to  rest.  Going,  he  said 
but  one  word  more  to  the  two.  "Good-night.  I 
wish  you  good  sleep." 

The  host  who  had  called  him  held  up  his  hands. 
"Reverend  sir,  I  marvel  how  you  can  stand  to  talk 
with  such  miscreants  — " 

Joan  and  Aderhold  lay  upon  the  stone  floor  and 
slept.  .  .  .  Night  passed,  the  rain  ceased,  the  clouds 
broke,  dawn  came  with  magnificence.  The  old  par- 
son, approaching,  too,  in  the  course  of  nature,  his 
death  hour,  slept  on  like  a  child  in  the  inner  room. 
But  Joan  and  Aderhold  went  forward  with  the 

428 


A  JOURNEY 

guard.   The  inn  sank  from  sight,  the  road  stretched 
before  them. 

This  day,  riding  into  a  village,  they  found  there, 
the  centre  until  their  arrival  of  excited  interest,  no 
less  a  matter  than  an  officer  6f  the  law  with  three  or 
four  subordinates,  come  from  the  town  to  which 
they  were  bound  —  despatched  thence  by  the  au- 
thorities with  orders  to  meet  upon  the  way  the  party 
known  to  be  bringing  from  London  that  witch  and 
sorcerer,  join  themselves  to  it,  and  so  give  touch 
of  that  town  and  county's  importance,  assuming 
charge,  as  it  were,  even  leagues  away,  of  their  own 
sinful  ones.  .  .  .  Aderhold  and  Joan  recognized  the 
head  figure  —  across  the  years  they  saw  him  again 
at  the  Hawthorn  trials  —  a  tall,  lean,  saturnine 
minor  piece  of  the  law's  machinery  who  had  herded 
the  prisoners  in  and  out  of  that  hall  of  judgement. 
He  was  so  tall  and  lean  and  lantern- jawed  and  grim 
that  he  might  have  been  a  prize  man  for  the  role  of 
Death  in  a  mystery  play.  For  his  part  he  came  and 
looked  at  them,  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed. 
"Ha,  ha!"  he  said.  "We've  got  you  back!  The 
wicked  do  not  prosper!"  With  that  he  returned  to 
the  sheriff  with  whom  he  would  ride.  .  .  .  This  vil- 
lage was  of  the  places  where  stones  and  other  mat- 
ters were  flung,  together  with  whatever  epithet  came 
to  the  lips.  Joan  and  Aderhold  opposed  a  quietness. 
Both  were  bleeding  when  at  last  the  law  persuaded 
or  threatened  down  the  raised  hands  and  bore  them 
away  for  its  own  blows.  Out  even  upon  the  open 

429 


THE  WITCH 

road  came,  borne  by  the  wind,  "Witch  —  Witch  — 
Witch!  Vile  Witch!" 

There  was  a  man  with  the  added  party  who 
proved  to  be  of  kin  to  the  Hawthorn  end  of  the 
county.  He  knew  Hawthorn  and  Hawthorn  Forest. 
Riding  near  to  the  two  prisoners  and  discoursing 
with  his  fellows,  the  two  heard  mention  of  many  a 
familiar  name.  He  had  a  body  of  great  bulk  and  a 
round,  good-humoured  face,  and  a  liking  for  his  own 
speech  which  he  delivered  —  so  as  not  to  disturb  his 
superiors  —  in  a  monotone  of  low  pitch.  The  two 
heard  him  talk  of  the  Hawthorn  crops  and  fields  and 
weather,  of  the  times  good  and  bad,  of  the  stock,  the 
sheep  and  cattle,  of  the  streams  and  woods,  of  the 
people.  .  .  .  This  day  was  a  high,  cool  autumn  day 
with  a  tang  in  the  air.  The  sun  shone,  but  there  was 
a  wind  and  whirling  leaves.  Joan  and  Aderhold 
knew  that  now  there  were  not  many  miles.  ...  At 
dusk  they  halted  within  a  hamlet  where  the  folk 
were  too  few  to  do  more  than  stare  and  talk.  There 
was  no  gaol.  The  two  were  thrust  into  a  damp  and 
dark  place  where  firewood  was  piled.  Bread  and 
water  were  given  them,  but  no  straw  for  sleeping 
upon.  When  the  heavy  door  was  shut  and  barred, 
and  those  without  and  the  hamlet's  self  sunk  into 
sleep  or  silence,  all  was  as  black,  as  cold  and  still,  as 
the  grave  is  supposed  to  be. 

The  two  knew  that  next  day  they  would  reach 
the  town  and  the  prison  from  which,  six  years  and 
more  ago,  they  had  fled  away.  There  they  would  be 

430 


A  JOURNEY 

separated.  .  .  .  Probably  they  would  die  together 
—  would  be  brought  forth  together  to  die  —  might 
then  each  reach  the  other's  hand,  might  clasp  it  until 
nearly  the  last.  But  not  again  in  this  life  would  they 
be  together  like  this,  alone  together,  free,  shut  from 
the  world.  .  .  .  To-night,  at  first,  all  things  flowed 
away  save  the  fact  that  they  loved,  save  human 
passion  and  sorrow  and  clinging.  They  lay  in  the 
space  left  by  the  heaped  firewood,  in  the  intense 
dark,  and  they  held  each  other  in  their  arms,  close, 
close !  as  if  to  defy  all  parting,  and  there  were  broken 
words  and  sighs  and  tears.  The  last  night  —  the 
last  night  — 

The  higher  mood  returned,  though  slowly,  slowly. 
With  the  bending  of  the  night  toward  dawn,  it  was 
here.  They  lay  with  clasped  hands,  and  when  they 
spoke  they  spoke  of  love.  All  things  else  flowed 
away,  or  did  not  flow  away,  for  it  was  now  as  though 
love  tinted  all,  made  the  vast  whole  warm  and  vital. 
.  .  .  They  spoke  of  their  child,  and  of  their  island  life 
and  home ;  they  spoke  of  the  old  chief.  They  spoke  of 
people  they  had  known  and  loved  —  of  old  Roger 
Heron,  of  Master  Hard  wick  —  of  many,  of  all  peo- 
ple. The  draff  and  dross,  the  crooked  and  bent,  all 
came  into  the  glow,  the  solvent.  Love  —  love  — 
love!  .  .  .  Love  took  this  form  and  took  that  form, 
and  now  it  flew  with  these  wings,  and  now  with  other 
wings  —  and  it  was  love  of  the  body  and  the  earth 
and  all  nature,  and  it  was  love  of  wisdom  —  love  of 
knowledge  —  love  of  the  search  —  love  of  love  — 


THE  WITCH 

love  of  truth !  It  was  love  that  was  not  afraid  —  that 
rose  on  splendid  wings  —  that  outwatched  the  night 
and  saw  the  morning  coming.  .  .  . 

Outside  began,  faintly,  a  stirring.  A  cock  crew 
and  was  answered.  A  dog  barked  —  the  cock-crow 
came  again.  A  grey  light  stole  in  at  the  keyhole  and 
under  the  door  of  the  windowless  place  they  were  in. 
It  strengthened  until  they  could  make  out  each 
other's  face  and  form.  The  dog  barked  again,  men's 
voices  were  heard. 

Joan  and  Aderhold  rose  to  their  knees,  to  their 
feet,  steadying  each  other,  holding  by  the  firewood. 
The  place,  through  the  night,  had  had  the  chill  of 
the  sepulchre.  They  knew  it  to  be  their  last  moment 
together ;  hereafter,  to  the  end,  there  would  be  others 
by.  They  stood  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  their 
lips  meeting.  .  .  .  Steps  were  heard  without  and  the 
fall  of  the  chain  from  across  the  door.  They  released 
each  other,  they  stood  apart.  The  door  swung  open, 
light  rushed  in.  "Come  forth,  you  wicked  ones! 
Time  to  ride  on  —  and  to-night  we'll  lodge  you  in 
the  nest  you  flew  from!" 

There  could  not  have  been  a  fairer  autumn  day. 
And  now  as  they  rode  the  country  grew  more  and 
more  familiar.  .  .  .  While  the  day  was  yet  young, 
all  were  halted  for  a  few  minutes  before  a  tavern  set 
among  trees,  its  sign  a  great  rose  painted  on  a  black 
ground.  While  ale  in  jacks  and  tankards  was  brought 
forth  for  the  guardians  of  the  law,  the  two  prisoners 
had  brief  speech  together. 

432 


A  JOURNEY 

"The  Rose  Tavern,"  said  Aderhold.  "It  was  in 
this  place  that  I  first  met  Master  Hardwick.  It  was 
here  that  came  the  turn  toward  Hawthorn." 

"We  have  not  far  to  go  now." 

"No,  not  far." 

Jn  the  doorway  stood  the  tall  hostess  that  Ader- 
hold remembered.  She  stood  with  arms  akimbo,  re- 
garding the  prisoners  with  a  mien  so  hostile  as  to  ap- 
proach the  ferocious.  "Aaah!"  she  said.  "I'd  like 
to  help  bring  straw  and  wood ! ' '  She  spat  toward  the 
two.  "Have  n't  I  had  things  bewitched?  —  a  gold 
earring  taken  from  under  my  eyes,  and  our  ricks 
burned,  and  ill  luck  for  a  year  running  —  and  a  bat 
this  summer  came  flapping  through  the  house  every 
eve,  and  none  could  beat  it  down!"  She  was  speak- 
ing to  the  constable's  man  who  knew  Hawthorn. 
"Wherever  that  vile  witch  has  been  this  weary  time, 
be  sure  she 's  sent  her  word  out  over  all  these  parts 
to  do  us  harm  — " 

"And  that's  very  possible,"  said  the  round-faced 
man. 

"Are  n't  you  going  to  take  them  by  Hawthorn?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  other.  "Turn  off  this  side 
of  town  —  go  round  by  Hawthorn  Wood  —  then 
through  Hawthorn,  and  so  back  to  town  and  the 
prison.  It 's  miles  out,  but  Hawthorn  wants  it  done. 
There's  a  murmur  of  more  witches  —  and  it's  good 
warning  to  see  how  such  folk  fare!" 

Joan  and  Aderhold,  startled,  exchanged  glances. 
They  had  not  thought  of  that  —  of  coming  to  their 

433 


THE  WITCH 

prison  from  the  Hawthorn  end.  They  would  be 
longer  together.  Joan's  lips  parted.  "And  Haw- 
thorn Forest —  Ah,  maybe  we  shall  see  Heron's 
cottage — " 

The  sun  and  shadow  on  the  road,  the  waving 
trees,  the  white  fleets  of  clouds  in  a  blue,  blue  sky. 
.  .  .  They  came  to  the  crossroads  with  the  suicide's 
grave  —  they  came  to  the  rise  of  earth  where  stood 
the  gibbet  with  its  swinging  chains  —  they  came  to 
a  view  of  the  castle  wood  and  the  castle  and  the  town 
beyond.  One  of  the  men  asked  a  question  of  the 
round-faced  man.  "Who  lives  up  there?" 

"The  earl,"  said  the  round-faced  man.  "  But  he's 
away  now.  It  used  to  be  that  if  he  was  n't  there  his 
cousin,  Sir  Richard,  was.  But  Sir  Richard  went  to 
France,  and  they  say  he  married  there  and  has  a  son. 
—  I  used  to  know  Gervaise  his  man.  But  Gervaise 
has  gone  too." 

The  sun  made  of  the  castle  woods  golden  woods. 
Joan  could  see  the  Black  Tower  —  see  where  deep 
among  the  trees  would  be  the  huntsman's  house. 
A  great  bird  rose  above  the  gold-green  and  sailed 
away.  .  .  .  Here,  a  mile  from  the  first  outlying  house, 
was  the  narrow  and  little-used  road  that,  curving 
aside  from  the  town,  led  through  some  miles  of  coun- 
try, tilled  and  untilled,  to  Hawthorn  Forest;  then, 
with  a  half  turn,  came  at  its  leisure  to  Hawthorn, 
and  so  touched  again  the  highway.  They  took  this 
road. 

Until  they  came  to  a  stream,  in  size  between  a 
434 


A  JOURNEY 

brook  and  a  river,  the  country  was  to  the  two  as  the 
other  familiar  country.  But  this  was  the  stream 
that  murmured  past  the  Oak  Grange.  They  were 
riding  by  its  shore,  they  were  going  toward  the 
Grange  —  now  indeed  it  grew  to  be  known  land. 
Aderhold  knew  every  winding.  .  .  .  The  two  rode  as 
in  a  dream.  Before  them,  in  the  distance,  in  a  golden 
haze,  rose  a  forest.  "Hawthorn  Wood" — and 
Joan's  voice  made  the  words  dreamy  music.  The 
sun  was  warm  now,  the  sky  was  blue,  the  leaves  were 
falling,  but  without  sadness,  ready  to  go,  to  return 
once  more  to  the  elements,  build  again.  The  stream 
bent  and  the  road  with  it.  There  came  a  long  reach 
of  murmuring  water,  sliding  by  a  pebbly  strand. 
Across  it  now  were  fields  that  once  had  gone  with 
the  Oak  Grange.  ...  A  little  farther,  and  they  saw 
the  old  house,  and  before  it  the  fairy  oak. 

Just  at  the  footbridge  across  the  stream  sounded 
an  order  to  halt.  The  lean,  grim  man  whom  the  town 
had  sent  spoke  in  a  harsh  and  rattling  voice.  "This 
is  where  he  made  gold  and  practised  sorcery.  — 
Thou  God-denier !  behold  thy  old  lair,  how  accursed 
it  looks!" 

To  the  two  it  did  not  seem  accursed.  It  stood  an 
old,  deserted,  ruinous  house,  but  the  ivy  was  green 
upon  it,  and  the  sunshine  bathed  it,  and  the  swal- 
lows circled  above  the  roof.  The  oak  tree  in  front 
lived,  and  from  its  acorns  were  growing  other  oaks. 
.  .  .  Joan  and  Aderhold  looked  long  and  earnestly. 
The  air  was  thronged  with  memories  and  there 

435 


THE  WITCH 

seemed  a  weaving  music.    They  were  not  unhappy 

—  the  artifex  within  them  was  not  unhappy.    But 
those  that  were  with  them  thought  that  they  must 
be  so. 

The  horses  were  in  motion  again.  And  now  the 
road  turned  and  became  Hawthorn  Forest  road  that 
ran  to  Hawthorn.  The  Oak  Grange  passed  from 
sight,  the  murmur  of  the  stream  left  the  ears.  They 
were  within  Hawthorn  Forest.  The  great  trees  rose 
around ;  there  fell  gold  shafts  of  light ;  there  came  the 
odour,  damp  and  rich,  of  the  forest  mould  deepen- 
ing, deepening  since  old  time.  Down  a  purple  vista 
they  saw  deer  moving  —  a  faint  wind  was  blowing 

—  there  was  a  drifting,  drifting  down  of  leaves.  .  .  . 
To  Joan  and  Aderhold  this  forest  breathed  music. 
They  were  glad  to  be  here  once  again.   They  knew 
the  single  trees  and  the  groups  of  trees,  they  knew 
each  picture  within  a  picture:  loved  the  detail  and 
loved  the  whole.  It  was  sweet,  before  death,  to  have 
been  in  Hawthorn  Wood  again. 

Heron's  cottage.  When  they  were  forth  from  the 
forest  they  would  see  that  plainly,  riding  by.  Per- 
haps they  would  draw  rein  there  too.  The  red  crept 
into  Joan's  cheek,  her  grey  eyes  grew  bright  and 
wistful.  ,  .  .  The  forest  stopped;  the  grassy  road 
brought  them  out  into  full  sunshine,  a  high  blue  sky 
arching  the  open,  autumn  country.  Heron's  cottage. 
.  .  .  There  was  yet  the  green  path  from  the  road, 
yet  the  fruit  trees,  bronze  now  and  trembling  in  the 
wind  —  but  there  was  no  thatched  cottage.  "  Vile 

436 


A   JOURNEY 

witch!"  said  the  tall  man,  "Hawthorn  burned  your 
house." 

Hawthorn  —  there  was  no  great  distance  now  to 
Hawthorn.  There  had  never  been  much  passing 
on  this  road,  little  human  life  going  up  and  down. 
This  day  there  seemed  none ;  moreover,  a  cot  or  two 
by  the  wayside  showed  no  folk  about  the  doors,  ap- 
peared shut  and  left  to  care  for  themselves.  At  dawn 
a  man  had  been  sent  forward  on  a  fresh  horse  —  the 
loneliness  of  the  road  now  connected  itself  with  that. 
"  Every  body's  gone  to  Hawthorn,"  said  the  round- 
faced  man. 

Hawthorn  Church,  stone  amid  stone-like  yew 
trees,  Hawthorn  roofs  showed  over  the  rim  of  the 
fields.  Out  of  a  coppice  rose  a  lark  and  soaring  high 
sang  up  there  in  the  blue.  The  Hawthorn  Forest 
road  joined  the  highroad;  guard  and  prisoners  com- 
ing upon  this  turned  now  to  Hawthorn  village.  Car- 
thew  House  —  they  passed  Carthew  House  —  they 
passed  the  outlying  cottages,  among  them  that  of 
Alison  Inch  —  they  came  into  Hawthorn  and  to 
Hawthorn  Church  and  Master  Clement's  house. 
Here  were  the  people.  .  .  . 

A  bench  had  been  placed  by  the  churchyard  gate, 
and  upon  this  stood  Master  Clement,  raised  as  by  a 
pulpit  over  Hawthorn.  Near  him  stood  Squire 
Carthew  and  his  brother,  and  the  latter  stood  grim 
and  grey  as  granite.  It  was  his  intention  to  rise  in 
church  the  coming  Sunday  and  before  all  Hawthorn 
acknowledge  that  six-years-past  sin.  He  owed  that 

437 


THE  WITCH 

to  God.  The  confession  might  or  might  not  put  in 
jeopardy  his  future  in  England,  but,  however  that 
might  be,  he  would  make  it  —  make  it  publicly ! 
So  he  might  have  peace  and  could  go  on  with  the 
great  work,  assured  that  God  had  forgiven.  .  .  . 
For  to-day  he  had  made  himself  come  hither,  taking 
it  as  part  of  his  duty.  Master  Clement  had  urged 
that  it  was  his  duty.  With  a  stern  face  he  gazed  upon 
the  two,  but  they,  after  one  glance,  looked  at  him 
no  more. 

All  around,  packed  in  the  churchyard  and  the 
street,  were  the  people  of  Hawthorn  and  its  neigh- 
bourhood. How  many  familiar  faces  they  saw  — 
but  how  few  out  of  which  superstition  had  not 
razed  kindliness!  Heretofore  on  this  journey,  where 
they  had  been  set  in  the  eye  of  a  gathered  crowd, 
the  two  had  met  with  physical  blows  no  less  than 
with  hard  words.  But  the  Hawthorn  throng  was 
held  in  hand.  No  stone  or  clod  or  refuse  was 
thrown.  The  hard  words  arose,  broke  over  them 
heavily,  a  sordid  and  bitter  wave.  But  this,  too,  the 
minister  checked.  He  raised  his  arms  and  flung  them 
wide,  he  shook  his  lean  and  nervous  hands.  Thrust 
to  the  front  of  the  throng  stood  the  tinker  with 
whom  Joan  had  once  walked  on  the  road  from  the 
town.  "Hist,  hist!"  said  the  tinker.  "Now  will 
they  hear  their  last  sermon!" 

"'And  the  sea  gave  up  the  dead  which  were  in  it;  and 
death  and  hell  delivered  up  the  dead  which  were  in  them, 
and  they  were  judged  according  to  their  works.  .  .  . 

438 


A  JOURNEY 

A  nd  whosoever  was  not  found  written  in  the  book  of 
life  was  cast  into  the  lake  of  fire!' 

"'And  the  devil  that  deceived  them  was  cast  into  the 
lake  of  fire  and  brimstone  where  the  beast  and  the  false 
prophet  are,  and  shall  be  tormented  day  and  night  for- 
ever and  ever. ' ' 

Hawthorn  drew  in  its  breath  and  shivered  with 
that  sermon.  They  said  that  it  was  the  greatest  that 
Master  Clement  had  ever  preached,  and  he  had 
preached  a-many  great  ones!  Some  of  the  simpler 
folk  almost  looked  for  fire  to  come  down  from  heaven 
and  consume  the  wicked  leech  and  that  vilest  witch 
where  they  stood.  It  would  have  been  a  wonderful 
sight  and  lesson!  But  doubtless  God  wanted  the 
forms  of  the  law  carried  out  —  though  they  could 
not  but  still  think  how  wonderful  would  have  been 
a  visible  sign.  .  .  . 

Joan  and  Aderhold  were  an  hour  in  Hawthorn. 
...  It  passed;  all  hours  passed,  though  some,  and 
this  among  them,  went  on  wounded  feet. 

It  passed.  They  were  in  motion  again.  The 
Hawthorn  folk  that  cried  bitter  words  behind  them, 
the  narrow  street,  the  small,  familiar  houses  with 
dooryards  where  the  flowers  were  fading,  the  ale- 
house, the  green,  the  sexton's  house,  other  houses, 
the  elms  and  willows  that  marked  the  village  end  — 
all  were  overpassed,  left  behind.  Here  at  last  was 
the  open  road,  and  they  had  six  miles  to  ride  together. 
.  .  .  Hawthorn  faded  from  the  mind. 

It  was  afternoon.   The  gold  light  lay  softly  over 

439 


THE  WITCH 

the  country  that  had  always  seemed  to  them  a  very 
fair  country  —  that  seemed  so  still.  The  wind  had 
fallen.  They  rode  side  by  side.  Those  that  guarded 
them  were  tired  with  the  long  day  and  its  various 
excitements.  These  rode  in  silence  or  talked  among 
themselves  in  voices  somewhat  subdued,  and  for  a 
time  let  the  prisoners  go  unmarked.  When  they 
came  within  sight  of  the  town  it  would  be  different. 
Then  all  would  straighten  in  their  saddles  and 
closely  surround  the  two,  assuming  the  proper  air  of 
vigilance.  But  now  they  allowed  them  to  ride  side 
by  side  and  gave  no  heed  to  what  words  they  might 
speak  to  each  other. 

They  were  simple  words  that  Joan  and  Aderhold 
spoke  —  old,  old  words  of  love  and  tenderness.  They 
spoke  of  courage.  And  they  spoke  of  Truth,  the 
Origin  and  Goal.  And  they  loved  each  other,  and 
the  light  of  all  suns,  and  they  found  song  and  sweet- 
ness, promise  and  fulfilment  even  in  this  autumnal 
day.  .  .  . 

The  miles  fell  away  like  the  leaves  from  the  trees. 
The  ground  rose;  they  had  a  great  view  bathed  in 
the  amber  light.  There  flowed  a  gleaming  crescent. 
"The  river!"  said  Joan. 

The  town  that  they  had  seen  from  the  south,  now 
they  saw  from  the  north.  They  saw  the  river  and 
the  arched  bridge,  the  climbing  streets  and  many 
roofs ;  they  saw  the  great  church  and  near  it  the  dark 
prison,  and  above  the  town  the  castle  and  the  castle 
wood.  The  sun  was  sinking,  the  light  was  reddening; 

440 


A  JOURNEY 

above,  the  sky  sprang  pure,  without  a  stain,  for  the 
fleets  of  clouds  had  sailed  away. 

The  tall ,  lean  man  spoke.  ' '  Witch  and  blasphemer ! 
do  you  see  yon  ragged  field  sloping  down?  That  is 
where  we  will  hang  you." 

Joan  and  Aderhold,  going  toward  the  river,  looked 
upon  the  ragged  field  with  steadfastness,  but  gave 
but  few  moments  to  that  sight.  Before  them  was 
the  arched  bridge,  and  they  saw,  even  on  this  side  of 
it,  people  gathering.  Presently  the  sheriff's  men 
would  come  between  them,  surrounding  each,  mak- 
ing one  go  before  the  other.  Now  they  had  these  last 
few  moments  side  by  side.  Their  hands  might  touch, 
their  eyes  be  eloquent.  Farewell  —  and  farewell  — 
and  oh,  fare  you  well,  love  —  my  love!  .  .  . 

The  road  descended  to  the  river  and  the  bridge. 
There  arose  the  sound  they  knew  from  the  crowd 
they  knew.  The  sheriff's  men  pushed  between  them ; 
they  must  go  one  before  the  other.  So  each  might 
be  better  seen  as  well  as  better  guarded.  They 
crossed  the  river;  they  mounted  the  steep  street; 
they  came  to  the  town  square,  past  the  great  church's 
sculptured  portal.  .  .  .  The  two  had  been  ordered 
to  dismount,  were  now  afoot.  .  .  .  Here  was  the 
pillory  —  here  was  the  black  prison's  frowning  front, 
the  prison  steps,  the  open  door.  .  .  .  The  setting 
sun  flooded  the  place  with  red  light.  A  flint,  flung 
by  some  strong  arm,  had  cut  Aderhold 's  forehead. 
With  his  hand  he  wiped  the  blood  away  and  looked 

to  see  Joan.  She  was  upon  the  prison  steps,  lifted  so 

441 


THE  WITCH 

that  the  roaring  crowd  might  see  her.  That  great 
light  from  the  sun  beat  strongly  upon  face  and  form. 
The  form  was  drawn  to  its  height,  the  face  was  high, 
resolved,  and  beautiful.  But  the  crowd  shouted, 
"The  witch!  The  witch!  Look  at  the  light  as  of 
fire !  The  fire  has  her  already !  Witch  —  Witch  — 
Witch!" 

Joan  mounted  the  last  step,  the  black  prison 
gaped  for  her,  she  entered.  Aderhold,  mounting, 
met  also  that  great  shaft  of  light.  The  voice  of  the 
crowd  swelled,  grew  phrensied,  but  he  heeded  it  not, 
and  with  a  face  lit  from  within  followed  Joan  into 
the  prison. 


THE   END 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U    .    S    .    A 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SANTA  CRUZ 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  DATE  stamped  below. 


.00  pM 


1973 

NOV  26RECf 


50m-l,'69(J5643s8)2373— 3A,1 


3  2106  00207  5338 


